Linka gazed at the silvery drops of rain on the window in front of her as she stood at the sink, washing the dishes from their evening meal. Outside, it was pitch black, but the drops were caught in the light from the kitchen, and the entire window pane glittered with them.
She could hear her grandmother chuckling in the other room as Mishka finished telling her a story about something that had happened to him that day. He laughed too, and the sound sent anger rocketing through Linka.
He came in to help her, grabbing a dishtowel and smiling at her. "You're quiet."
"Am I?" she asked irritably.
He looked at her in alarm. "What's wrong?" He lowered his voice. "Did something happen today?"
She sloshed around in the sink angrily, pulling the plug. "No, Mishka, nothing happened. Grandma was fine. Why did you have to worry me so much when there's nothing wrong? I was beside myself when you –"
"Linka," Mishka interrupted, setting the dishtowel aside carefully, "do you think I was lying?"
She chewed her lip and glanced towards the living room. "I don't know," she muttered. "Maybe."
His eyes widened for a moment. "How can you possibly accuse me of –"
"She's fine," Linka hissed, pointing towards the living room and praying their grandmother had heard nothing. "I know it's been a long time since I was home, Mishka, but telling me Grandma is unwell so I rush home in a panic..." She trailed off and shook her head, pressing her lips together into a thin line.
Mishka looked angry and upset. He shook his head and leaned against the counter, a frown on his brow. "Linka," he said carefully, "I told you she has good days and bad days. Today was a good day. It was good for her to have someone home with her during the day; someone to talk to." He raised his eyes to hers and shrugged, looking sad. "She might be good tomorrow, too. She might be her old self tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. But a bad day will come back again..." He rubbed his hand across his brow. "Sometimes she forgets my name."
Linka stared at him. She could feel various emotions pulling at her, each one struggling to become prominent. Eventually, defensiveness won out, and she refused to believe that Mishka was right. She just shook her head, and his arm came around her shoulders and held her to him for a moment.
He kissed the top of her head. "I'd never lie to you," he whispered. "Come on."
She gave him a small smile, but deep down she still refused to believe her grandmother was anything but the way she had always been.
She smiled at her grandchildren as they returned to the living room and sat on the sofa opposite her.
"Your hair is getting longer, Linka," she said after a moment.
"I know," Linka said, giving a rueful smile. She pulled her ponytail over her shoulder and ran her fingers through it. "It needs cutting."
"You look like your mother, when you have long hair," her grandmother said fondly.
Linka blushed, feeling pleased. "I wish we had more photographs of her."
Her grandmother chuckled. "Just look in the mirror. You're the image of her."
Linka smiled and settled back into the couch. "Did you finish your book, Grandma?"
"Yes," her grandmother sighed. "But I have read it before. No surprises at the end."
Linka smiled again, but added that little portion of conversation to her growing pile of evidence against Mishka's worries.
Gi peered out into the corridor, listening carefully. Behind her, her bed was empty, though her pillows had been carefully arranged beneath the blankets, just in case someone poked their head into the room to check on her.
With her heart drumming in her ears, she crept forward and carefully opened the door to Kwame's room. Moonlight spilled into the room through the window, which was open to the night air. She grinned to herself and tiptoed forwards, heading for Kwame's still, slumbering figure in bed. She knelt beside him and watched him for a moment. He was on his stomach, both arms stretched up over his head, one resting on his pillow and the other disappearing beneath it. The sheets sat loose and soft, low on his back.
Gi traced her hand over his skin and stretched out beside him, doing her best not to wake him. She stared up at the ceiling, thinking back over the evening.
At least I didn't fight with her, she thought after a moment. Though it came close.
Gi's mother had spent most of the evening questioning her on her future plans, and whether or not university or marriage countered into them.
"You can't be a Planeteer forever," she had said sternly. "What comes next, Gi?"
Gi had glanced helplessly at Kwame, and he had smiled and shrugged, indicating that it was all right to put off the discussion of their relationship for now. Gi had felt relieved. Though she was sure her parents would approve of Kwame, she wasn't sure she could handle the intense questioning and scrutiny that was bound to follow – at least, not after the university discussions.
Kwame stirred beside her, his arm stretching out to meet her body. "Hm," he sighed. "Hi."
"Shh," she whispered, smiling and rolling over to kiss him. "Hi."
"What time is it?"
"It's the middle of the night. I couldn't sleep."
Kwame curled his arm around her and pulled her to him, kissing the top of her head. "Are you all right?"
She chewed on a fingernail. "Uh-huh."
Kwame ran his hand over her back. "They are both lovely people, Gi. They only want you to be happy."
"Appa's fine," Gi murmured. "He doesn't care what I do, so long as I'm busy and I'm happy. Umma wants me with a degree in either hand and a ring on my wedding finger."
Kwame chuckled and hugged her closer. "She loves you."
"I'm sorry we didn't tell them," Gi whispered. "We can do it tomorrow. I just couldn't face it, on top of everything else. They love you, but you have no idea how many questions this will spark. I need time to prepare."
He laughed quietly and buried his face against her neck. "Whenever you are ready," he breathed.
"You don't mind?"
"No."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, forcing him to abandon the last dregs of sleep. He wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her to his body, his hands moving behind her hips and over the swell of her backside.
"We'll tell them," she promised, breathing heavily. "I really want them to know. It just needs to be done at the right time."
"I know." He kissed her again and then fell back into his pillows. "If they catch you in here, there will never be a right time."
She smiled and snuggled into him, closing her eyes. "I just want to stay for a little while. I can't sleep without you beside me."
He kissed the top of her head and pulled the sheets over their bodies, listening to her breathing quieten and deepen as she relaxed against him.
Wheeler had planned to head straight to the address on the business card, but nerves and doubt wore him down before he'd even left his apartment building. Suddenly he didn't feel like going anywhere – especially to a place he could hardly believe existed.
He took the card out of his pocket again. Patricia Gatto, Art Prints.
He bit his lip and leaned against the outside wall of his apartment building. The warm brick pressed against his t-shirt. He turned the card over in his fingers a few times, trying to decipher the joke. Trish had never mentioned anything as serious as a gallery, and he found it hard to believe she'd gathered the money to put one together. Besides, something as important as a gallery – she would have told him about it. He didn't want to go to the address only to find out it was something she had dreamed up and never achieved.
He shoved the card back into his pocket again and sighed, feeling rather deflated. He suddenly wished he hadn't locked himself out of the apartment again. Going back upstairs and asking Mrs Prescott for the key for the second time in one afternoon didn't seem like a good idea.
He sighed and heaved himself away from the wall, his feet treading a familiar, unwelcome path to his father's favourite bar. He wasn't sure what had caused him to suddenly think this was what he should be doing, but deep down he had a hope that he could somehow wrestle his father into sobriety by the time his mother came home. A sober husband on her birthday would be one of the better presents anyone could offer her.
Wheeler shouldered the door open, squinting into the dim, smoky bar. There were a few hunched figures inside, and a television showing greyhound racing, up above the dusty bottles of liquor on the shelves behind the bartender.
A fit of coughing drew Wheeler's attention to where he needed to be. His father sat at the end of the bar, a full glass of beer in front of him. Wheeler drew a shaky breath and walked over to him.
"Dad. You okay?"
Nicholas Wheeler squinted towards the tall young man standing next to him. "What's that?"
Wheeler bent down and stared into his face. "Jesus, you're yellow. I gotta take you home. Come on."
Nick chuckled and clapped his shoulder. "My boy! Hey, hey Pete. Come here." Nick waved at the bartender. "This is my boy."
Wheeler sighed and shrugged his father's hand off his shoulder. "Come on, Dad. Let's go home."
The bartender rubbed a rag over the polished bar. "You the Planeteer? He talks about you a lot."
Wheeler blinked. "He does?"
"Never ending." The mutter came from a dark corner and Wheeler didn't bother trying to figure out who had said it.
"Where you been?" Nick breathed, spittle forming on his lips. "You been gone a long time."
Wheeler felt uncomfortable. He had hoped for a warm welcome from his father, but he hadn't ever really expected it, even if it was only lukewarm. It made him feel odd and out of place, like the universe had shifted somehow.
"I seen you on the television," Pete the bartender said, jabbing a finger at Wheeler. "Have a beer. On the house."
"I don't drink," Wheeler answered, shaking his head firmly. "Come on, Dad. Time to go home."
"Let me finish my beer."
Wheeler sighed and sat next to his father, taking in his sunken face and wasted muscles. His gut swelled out and stretched his shirt, but the rest of him seemed thin and gaunt and sickly. His skin was a rough, wrinkled, dirty cream colour. Wheeler watched him gulp at his beer, anger and hopelessness swirling around in his stomach.
"Have a beer with your old man," Nick said, clapping Wheeler between the shoulder blades. It was still a heavy strike, considering how wasted-away the man seemed.
"I don't drink, Dad. Are you ready? Time to go home." Wheeler stood up impatiently, though the level in his father's beer glass had barely changed.
"What do you mean you don't drink?" Nick asked scornfully. "Have a beer! It won't kill you."
Wheeler stared back at him in amazement. "It might," he answered slowly. "You looked in the mirror lately?"
Anger flashed across Nick's face. "I make my own choices."
"Good for you," Wheeler answered softly. He stared at the television until his father had finished his beer.
"What's the rush?" Nick asked, staggering from his chair. "I gotta piss; wait here."
Wheeler waited for him. Pete the bartender took his empty glass.
"Why do you serve him?" Wheeler asked angrily. "You know it's killing him, don't you?"
"The man can make his own choices," Pete answered defensively.
Nick weaved his way back from the bathroom. "Let's go," he said, making an effort to stand straight.
Wheeler sighed and led him out into the sunshine.
They'd taken four steps before Nick demanded they go back. An unlit cigarette hung from his mouth. "I forgot my lighter."
"I got it." Wheeler took the cigarette and used his Planeteer ring to light it. "Come on. We're goin' home."
Nick scowled, evidently not pleased about missing a chance to go back into the dark, smoky atmosphere of the bar.
"You okay?" Wheeler asked after a moment. "You can walk home, right?"
"I can walk home," Nick agreed, though he was breathing heavily by the time they reached the end of the block.
"You need to rest?"
Nick nodded and sank down onto a stoop. Wheeler sat beside him carefully.
"I thought you'd stopped," he said after a moment.
"I cut back," Nick answered defensively.
"It's killing you," Wheeler snapped. "Can't you see that?"
Nick flicked his cigarette butt into the street. "You think I'm stupid? I see it."
Wheeler ran his hands through his hair. "So stop it, Dad."
Nick coughed and gave a short, gravelly laugh. "You think it's easy, kid? You think I can just turn it off? I know it's killin' me. I know it's destroyed me. But I can't get through a day without it." He shook his head and leaned against the wall. "Don't you come back here and get all high and mighty on me."
Wheeler leaned his head against the wall. It was hard to be sympathetic towards someone when they did so little to help themselves – even if it was an addiction. He couldn't remember his father healthy. It seemed as though he'd had enough time and enough chances to straighten himself out, and he hadn't bothered.
He looked at his father and elbowed him sharply. "Don't go to sleep."
"I wasn't," Nick mumbled.
"Come on." Wheeler stooped to pick up the discarded cigarette butt and throw it in the trash before he helped his father up, pulling his arm around his shoulders and supporting his weight. "It's not far, Dad."
"I know that," Nick snapped. "Get off your damn high horse. Comin' home and takin' charge. You think you're better than me? You can travel the world and save all those people but don't you dare come back here and talk to me that way..."
Wheeler only half-listened as his father ranted on, helping him up the stairs of their building. Nick struggled to unlock the door, and Wheeler saw the shadow of Mrs Prescott moving about beneath her door on the opposite side of the corridor.
He sighed and helped his father inside. "Go to bed, Dad. Don't drink anything else today, okay? It's Ma's birthday."
Nick coughed and grumbled, slamming the bedroom door.
Wheeler sank onto the couch, listening to the bedsprings creak in the next room as his father settled himself on the bed.
He sighed and checked his watch. It was two o'clock in the morning in Linka's time zone, and not much better in Busan, where Gi and Kwame were staying. He didn't want to contact Ma-Ti in case the Heart Planeteer worried and felt he had to leave Shaman to pick Wheeler up early.
The Fire Planeteer took the card advertising Patricia Gatto's gallery out of his pocket and ran his thumb over it. Even without the other Planeteers, maybe he did have someone to talk to.
"Ma-Ti!"
Ma-Ti quickly smothered his yawn and turned towards the door of Shaman's hut. Ropni had stepped inside with a smile.
Ma-Ti smiled back. "There you are! Back at last..."
Ropni laughed and embraced the Heart Planeteer. "The fish were difficult to catch, today. I thought they would keep me waiting until dark. It is good to see you. Are you here for long?"
"I go back the day after tomorrow," Ma-Ti answered, motioning for Ropni to sit down. "How are you?"
"Very well," Ropni answered immediately, smiling and stretching his legs out. "How are you?"
Ma-Ti smiled back but didn't answer so quickly. He looked down at his hands. "Shaman tells me there has been some trouble, lately."
Ropni gazed back at him for a moment and then blinked. "What trouble?"
"Something to do with a tourism company wishing to extend tour routes to our part of the forest."
Ropni scowled. "That is being taken care of. Shaman does not need to worry. Tell me about your Planeteer stories."
Ma-Ti breathed a quiet sigh and looked back at his friend. It seemed a lifetime ago since they had both run through the forest together as fearless adventurers. Ma-Ti suddenly wished those days had not ended so quickly. He had been forced to take notice of the troubles and consequences of adulthood long before he seemed ready, and he missed simplistic childhood. Ropni always seemed to remind him of those days.
"I would like to hear more about this tourism company," Ma-Ti answered. "What exactly are they proposing?"
"I told you, Ma-Ti, it has been taken care of," Ropni said impatiently. "They will give in, soon. They know we do not want them here."
"Sometimes that is not enough to stop them," Ma-Ti answered with a small smile. "Have they made threats?"
"No." Ropni looked irritated, but Ma-Ti pushed on.
"The talks have gone well, then?"
Ropni rubbed his arm. "What talks?"
"I assumed you have spoken with them," Ma-Ti answered, shrugging. "You and the other men, I mean. Do they seem understanding of our point of view? Have they agreed to stop?"
"Not yet," Ropni conceded, "but they will. Why all the questions, Ma-Ti?"
Ma-Ti looked carefully at his friend for a moment and then smiled. "No reason. I am just curious." He allowed Ropni to change the subject, but in his mind he turned over what Shaman had said earlier, and added it to Ropni's defensiveness and anger.
It all added up to something he didn't like at all.
Wheeler paused outside the door of the gallery and checked his watch. A closed sign hung on the inside of the door, but the lights inside were on. He tried the door and found it unlocked. He grinned and swung it open, stepping inside. A dull, electric buzz rang somewhere behind the desk at the back, indicating his entrance.
He heard Trish curse from one of the back rooms. "We're closed, sorry!" she cried. She emerged from the back with a thin paintbrush in her hand, coveralls rolled down to her hips and a thin white tank top hugging her chest. She stopped and stared.
"Closed for me?" Wheeler asked, pointing at the sign.
A slow smile spread across her face. "Well, well. Look who it is."
"Are you gonna hug me, or not?"
"Not," she said, looking down at herself. "I got paint on me."
"I've been covered in worse things."
She laughed and set the paintbrush down on the desk before she leapt at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist.
"Hi," she breathed, squeezing him.
"Hey." He squeezed her back and kissed her cheek. "Miss me?"
She buried her face in his neck, not letting go of him. "You promised to keep in touch."
Guilt shot through him. "I know. I'm sorry." He set her down on her feet and kissed her cheek again. "Gonna forgive me?"
"Not right away," she answered, punching his arm.
He laughed and followed her into the back room. "Nice gallery."
She beamed at him. "I tried to phone you, to tell you about it, but you were never there."
"Sorry," he said, feeling guilty again. "I work long hours."
"Yeah," she sighed, waving away his apology. "I won a grant."
"You did?" He beamed at her. "Good for you."
She laughed. "I had to spend it on art. So I opened this place. I'm going to host exhibitions with art done by homeless kids, as well as my own stuff. And some other local stuff done by my friends."
Wheeler wrapped his arms around her and kissed her shoulder. "You're pretty amazing."
"I know," she sighed, leaning back into him and gazing at the wet canvas in front of her. "I am."
He chuckled and hugged her.
She tipped her head back against his shoulder and looked up at him. "You back for your mom's birthday?"
"Uh-huh. I have to stop off and get her a box of chocolates or something before I go pick her up from work. You want to come by for dinner?"
"Don't you want to be alone with your family?" she asked teasingly.
He rolled his eyes and let her go, stepping away from her. "I've already seen Dad today."
"How is he?" Trish asked, pulling her coveralls up and wiping her hands on a rag. "I saw him yesterday. He looked pretty sick."
"He still looks pretty sick," Wheeler muttered. "I had to bring him home in the middle of the day."
Trish winced. "I'm sorry."
He nodded and ran his hand through his hair. "You'll come by, right? I think he'll be okay, but it'd be nice to have you there as a buffer."
She laughed and tossed the rag aside. "Your dad stopped behaving himself in front of me a long time ago. I'm practically part of the family now. He's not going to hold back just because I'm there."
"It'll still be easier for me," he murmured.
"Then I'll come," she answered. "Just let me get washed up. Your mom doesn't finish work for another hour yet. We'll make it."
He smiled at her and leaned against the wall. "Patricia Gatto," he sighed. "Gallery owner."
She grinned and shrugged. "I'm on my way up."
"Yeah," he said, taking her hand and squeezing it. "Guess you didn't need me, after all."
"I wouldn't say that," she answered, resting her head against his chest. "It still sucks, not having you here. I still miss you."
"I miss you too," he responded, kissing the top of her head.
"You never even think of me," she whispered. "When you leave, you forget me."
"That's not true!" he answered hotly.
She smiled up at him. "Yes it is. That's why you haven't been back in almost two years. That's why you never write me, or call me. You just forget."
"Trish..."
"It's okay," she answered, giving him a shaky smile. "If I got out of here, I'd want to forget it, too."
He leaned forward and kissed her gently. "I'll never forget you," he promised. "Please don't think I have. I just get busy. And I'm lousy at keeping in touch, no matter who it is or where they are."
She smiled at him and shrugged. "I gotta get cleaned up. Take a look around the gallery. I'll be down in a few minutes."
He gave her a small smile and watched her disappear up the stairs in the back room to the floor above. Her circumstances had changed, but she seemed the same, and he was grateful. Of all the things he wished he could change, Trish wasn't one of them. It was comforting to come back and fit back in with her like he always had.
Kwame had gently shaken Gi awake in the early hours of the morning, kissing her and telling her she should go back to her own bed. She had huskily agreed, and had staggered back into her own bedroom, collapsing onto her bed and wishing her parents weren't sleeping in the next room.
She glanced at him across the breakfast table. He was frowning slightly, in deep discussion with her father about something that had been on the morning news. She smiled to herself, pleased they were getting on so well.
"Gi! Come and help me with the coffee."
Gi sighed and wiped her mouth, gathering up the plates and cutlery and carrying them through into the kitchen, where her mother was standing by the counter.
"Get some fresh mugs, please?"
"I'm sure they don't care," Gi said, shrugging. "Just refill the ones we had earlier, at breakfast."
Her mother frowned and shook her head. Gi sighed again and reached up to fetch the mugs from the top shelf.
"You are putting weight on, Gi."
"I am?" Gi asked worriedly, twisting to look down at her backside. "How much?"
"Not much. But be careful. Once you start gaining it, it is difficult to lose again."
"Thanks for your vote of confidence," Gi muttered.
"Men like petite girls," her mother responded, patting her shoulder. "Watch what you eat."
Gi felt anger and frustration shoot through her. "For goodness sake," she hissed, "I'm not looking for a husband. Will you please stop? I'm happy with things the way they are."
"For now," her mother agreed. "It won't last, Gi. The older you get, the harder it will be."
"So I'm fat, old and uneducated," Gi snapped. "Poor little me."
"Don't speak to me like that," her mother answered sharply. "You are educated, Gi. You're a very clever young woman. But you don't have a degree, or a boyfriend, and it is difficult to discuss your line of work when I don't know where you are half the time, or what you're doing."
Gi bit her tongue. She suddenly wanted to prove to her mother that she was in a relationship, but bringing Kwame up in the middle of an argument didn't seem the right way to do it.
Gi's mother patted her shoulder gently. "You used to want to be a marine biologist," she said quietly. "Remember? All those books we bought you... All those tours around our offices. I thought you still wanted all of that."
Gi shrugged and leaned against the kitchen counter, keeping her voice soft in case Kwame was trying to overhear things. "Maybe," she said. "I still love to read those books. I still love to study marine biology in my own time. I'm just focused on other things right now. My friends, and my work. I'm really happy, Umma." She gave her mother a pleading look.
Please be happy because I'm happy.
Her mother sighed and waved her hand. "Take the men the fresh coffee. I'll be through in a moment. And straighten your posture, Gi; you're walking slouched."
Gi gritted her teeth and snatched up the pot of coffee, doing her best not to snap a sharp response back at her mother. It was hard to walk straight when the weight of the world was loading itself up on your shoulders.
Linka smiled as the birds in her hand twittered and gently bumped and fought one another for the seed she held cupped in her palm. She watched them scrabble for it, feeling their little feet clench gently around her fingers, their beaks nudging against her skin. It tickled, and it was a pleasant feeling she associated with her childhood.
Mishka had left for work a couple of hours ago, before the day had properly broken into sunlight, and Linka and her grandmother had finished their breakfast quietly, chatting about the weather and the book her grandmother had decided to read next.
Linka gently shook the birds off her hand and closed the door of the cage, heading back towards the living room, where her grandmother was sitting.
"I fed the birds," Linka sighed. "Do you need anything?"
"Katja, go and check on Linka and Boris," her grandmother demanded, pointing towards the window. "I told them to stay in the yard. I don't want them going to find Mishka at school again."
Linka blinked and felt the blood drain from her face. "Grandma?"
Her grandmother peered out the window. "They had better not be playing near that old well."
Linka hurried into the kitchen and snatched up the phone. She was halfway through dialling the number for the central office at the mine when she replaced the receiver quietly.
I can't call Mishka, she thought desperately. What good can he do? He warned me she does this. He can't do anything, even if he comes home.
She hovered in the kitchen, feeling anxious and sick. After a moment, she tiptoed back into the living room. "Grandma?"
"Did you put the kettle on?" her grandmother asked, looking up with a smile. "I feel like some tea."
Linka nodded, feeling relief creep back into her body. "Anything else?"
"No, my dear. I'm still full from breakfast." She gave a small laugh and patted her stomach. Linka gave her a shaky smile and disappeared back into the kitchen, fighting tears.
Ma-Ti stirred and slowly dragged himself from sleep. It was still early, but he could hear birds singing outside, and low voices floated through the air as people passed by outside.
He gave a sigh and rolled over, staring up at the ceiling of Shaman's hut. Suchi bounded in and sat on the end of Ma-Ti's bed, looking at him with bright eyes.
"Hello, little friend," Ma-Ti murmured, closing his eyes again. "Is it a nice day outside?"
Suchi leapt forward and landed on Ma-Ti's chest, causing him to cough and sit up.
"I've told you not to do that," the Heart Planeteer laughed, pushing the monkey away gently. "Okay, I'm up. Come on – it feels like breakfast time."
Shaman was sitting by the fire, watching the coals. He looked up when Ma-Ti walked in, rubbing his eyes.
"Did you sleep well, Ma-Ti?"
"Too well," Ma-Ti answered with a smile, sitting opposite him. "It was difficult to wake up."
Shaman chuckled and turned his attention back to the fire. His expression had become solemn.
"Are you all right, Shaman?" Ma-Ti asked.
Shaman sighed and looked up at the young man sitting opposite him. "There was some trouble last night," he said. "A fire broke out in the office of one of the executives for Planet Traffic."
Ma-Ti felt a twinge of worry and apprehension pass through him. "What happened?"
Shaman drew a heavy sigh and looked at Ma-Ti worriedly. "Ropni is nowhere to be found. They are blaming him for the incident. Unless he comes home soon, he is doing himself no favours. He looks guilty."
Ma-Ti put his head in his hands. "I cannot believe Ropni would resort to something like that," he said softly.
"Things have changed," Shaman sighed. "Not always for the better."
Ma-Ti rubbed his hands over his face. "I will go and find him," he said tiredly. "I know he is passionate about saving our way of life, but if he continues down this road, all he will do is hurt us."
Shaman nodded in quiet agreement, and Ma-Ti gave him a small smile.
"I'll fix it," he promised. "You have nothing to worry about."