My Life As an Alphabet Page 9

  At nine-thirty we were in the van, heading off to Brisbane. I had my false boobs on under my sweater. I hadn’t inflated them and that was a sensible decision. Even so, they made peculiar bumps. My chest looked like Douglas’s head. Mum glanced at it [my chest, not Douglas’s head] and her mouth opened, then closed again. Then she opened her mouth and closed it again. Another brilliant impersonation of Earth-Pig Fish. In the end, though, she said nothing and simply sat in the front seat. Douglas was next to me in the back. I tried to get everyone singing, but no one was interested. I remembered, in the dim and distant days of family harmony, that we used to sing ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round’ at the top of our lungs. Dad would do all the motions, putting on the windscreen wipers and tooting the horn at appropriate moments. He didn’t care then about the reaction of other motorists. I was tempted to try it, but settled for ‘Killing Me Softly [With His Song]’ instead. After the first chorus, I got the feeling I was killing them hardly, so I stopped. Mum and Dad stared through the windscreen as if reading the road scrolling beneath the wheels. I talked to Douglas.

  ‘Are you still jumping out of trees?’ I asked.

  He sighed. ‘Of course. But without success, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You fail at jumping out of trees?’

  ‘No. The jumping is no problem. But I can’t get back to my world. It is so frustrating.’

  ‘Is there a me in your world?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A Candice Phee? You said there was an infinity of earths and therefore an infinity of me’s. So have you bumped into an alternative me in your alternative Earth, and if so, what is she – me – like? Is that alternative Candice your friend? Does she have a religiously-confused fish? Or is she normal?’

  I liked the idea of a normal me somewhere, doing normal things and thinking normal thoughts – a Candice who wasn’t called a shortened form of Special Needs, who had a boyfriend and a phone, who went to sleepovers and drank cider and liked rap songs and confided everything to her sister, who worshipped her and wanted to be just like her when she grew up.

  ‘You must be there somewhere,’ said Douglas, ‘but I haven’t met you.’

  ‘Will you do me a favour?’ I asked. ‘If you get back . . .’

  ‘When I get back,’ said Douglas.

  ‘Yes. When you get back, would you look me up? Say hello from me.’ I started to get excited at the possibilities. ‘And because you are a whizz at all things scientific, perhaps you could invent something whereby we could communicate between our worlds. Letters, preferably, because I can’t do email. And maybe the alternative Candice could be my penpal.’ I stopped then, because a horrible thought struck me. What if the alternative Candice was too cool to bother with me? I could cope with the knowledge that Denille was too busy and/or too American to write, but I couldn’t face knowing that I didn’t like me. So I bit my fingernails, which I do when strange thoughts buzz around my head. If Douglas replied I didn’t hear it. I was focused on the probability of being snubbed in an infinite number of worlds.

  We arrived at the marina in an atmosphere of confusion. Dad locked the van and we stood for a moment gazing around the car park, which, to be honest, didn’t look like the perfect site for birthday celebrations. Neither did the sight of masts bobbing in a strange, detached fashion above the roofs of the cars.

  ‘Well,’ said Dad. ‘We’re here.’

  ‘True,’ I said. ‘Though, when you think about it, we are always here. I mean, at any given moment, here is inevitably where you must be. You can’t be there, without moving from the here to the there. And every movement is a small “here”. So “here” is a permanent . . .’

  ‘Candice,’ said Dad. ‘I know it’s your birthday, but please stop. We’re here. At the marina, which is your choice. So what do you want to do? Do you want your birthday party in this car park? Nothing would surprise me anymore.’

  He started to mutter darkly, so Mum grabbed him by the arm and hauled him off a few metres. There was much waving of arms and subdued growling mingled with the muttering. An occasional word like ‘selfish’ and ‘pig’ and ‘birthday’ fluttered past my ears as well as the odd phrase like ‘her day’ and ‘sarcastic bastard’. These were Mum’s contributions. Dad just scowled and muttered. Darkly. Wonderful, I thought. I was aiming for harmony, but achieving discord. I took Douglas by the arm and headed towards the boats. Maybe Mum and Dad would notice we’d gone after they’d finished muttering and growling.

  ‘Why are we here, Candice?’ asked Douglas Benson From Another Dimension.

  ‘To perform a miracle,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh,’ said Douglas. ‘Right.’

  I took him straight to the marina. There were so many boats it was difficult to see the water between them, but I knew where I was going. After all, I had thrown up on most of this marina and that helps in the getting of bearings. I saw Rich Uncle Brian’s boat at the far end of a long pier and headed towards it.

  Now that I was close to the BIG MOMENT, I was becoming nervous. If Rich Uncle Brian and/or Dad didn’t respond appropriately I could be moments from an unpleasant death. That got me thinking again, so I stopped.

  ‘Douglas?’ I said. ‘Do you think there is such a thing as a pleasant death?’

  He screwed up his face in concentration. His caterpillar eyebrows writhed.

  ‘Maybe being sucked into a Black Hole,’ he replied finally. ‘I’m not sure that would be pleasant, but it would be amazingly cool. You see, as you approached the event horizon . . .’

  ‘I thought not,’ I said, and took off for the Motherboard once again. Rich Uncle Brian’s yacht bobbed in the water in what sailors would probably find an agreeable fashion. I felt like throwing up. There was no sign of anyone on deck, but Rich Uncle Brian was almost certainly lurking down below, doing whatever nautical people do. I had rung him the day before and he had promised to be there. Rich Uncle Brian keeps his promises. I glanced over my shoulder. Mum and Dad were following, though they were some distance away. I had time to provide important information to Douglas Benson From Another Dimension.

  ‘Douglas,’ I said. ‘Promise me that whatever happens in the next few minutes, you will do absolutely nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘I thought it was fairly plain, but I’ll rephrase.

  Promise me that whatever happens in the next few minutes, you will do absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like nothing.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head as if to clear away confusion. ‘I mean, what will happen?’

  ‘Something.’ Suddenly an unpleasant thought surprised me. I was getting plenty of surprising thoughts today. Maybe it had something to do with being a teenager. ‘Unless,’ I added, ‘no one else does anything. If that happens – and ONLY if that happens – I want you to leap around like a mountain goat, screaming, pointing and generally being dramatic. Got it?’

  ‘No,’ said Douglas Benson From Another Dimension.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’m glad we’re on the same wavelength.’

  A hundred metres away, Mum and Dad walked along the pier. The time had come. I formed a megaphone with my hands and filled my lungs.

  ‘Rich Uncle Brian!’ I yelled. There was a pause while I took in the absence of an uncle on the Motherboard’s deck. I geared myself for another bellow, but was spared by the sight of RUB appearing from the bowels of the boat. It was unnerving. A peaked cap rose into view. Underneath it was RUB’s head. For a moment it was like a severed head balancing on the boards. Then his shoulders hove into view, followed by the rest of his body. It was like he’d oozed, head first, through the fabric of the boat. I might have applauded, but I had other things on my mind.

  ‘Pumpkin!’ he shouted. He might even have waved an arm. I cannot be sure. ‘Happy birthday, my girl. Happy birthday!’

  ‘Thank you, Rich Uncle Brian,’ I replied.

  Then I threw myself off the pier and into the water
.

  It was very wet, which was no great surprise, but also very cold, which was. I resisted the urge to take a sharp intake of breath, which was probably wise.

  I sank like a stone and waited. For rescue or death, whichever came first.

  I’m confident you’ll work out which.

  O

  IS FOR OBLIVION

  This is the way I explained it to Douglas Benson From Another Dimension:

  ‘My family is a mess, Douglas. My father hates my uncle. My uncle loves my father, but cannot back down. My mother is torn by family loyalties. I thought if my uncle and my father were united in a common purpose [saving me from drowning], they would forget their differences and bond. I pictured them throwing themselves into the water, hauling me to the surface. One clearing my airways while the other performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. And then, while I spluttered and drew breath, there would be much weeping and wailing. But there would also be hugging and tears of joy. A reconciliation.’

  ‘You’re an idiot, Candice,’ replied Douglas.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Certainly.’

  It hadn’t happened like that.

  Rich Uncle Brian had thrown himself overboard [so Douglas Benson From Another Dimension reported to me later], but hit his head on the side of the neighbouring yacht. Luckily he did no damage to it. The yacht, I mean. His head was another matter. Dad hurled himself off the pier while trying to take off his jacket in the time-honoured Hollywood fashion. Being a computer geek, however, he couldn’t get his arms out. As a result he fluttered like a wounded bird and cracked his head against Rich Uncle Brian’s knee. The two floated in a growing pool of blood-stained water and had to be rescued by the captain of a neighbouring yacht.

  My mother fainted.

  Douglas Benson From Another Dimension was confused about my instructions. I’d told him to act ONLY if nobody did anything. Someone [in fact, everyone] had done something, so he stood for a minute or two working through the problem. His logical mind told him to stand still, but I had been underwater for some time and showed no signs of resurfacing. Eventually he leaped around like a mountain goat, screaming, pointing and generally being dramatic. Unfortunately there was no one still conscious who could pay attention so he jumped into the ocean as well.

  Frankly, by this time, he might as well, since anyone who was anyone was either floating or thrashing about madly. With the exception of my mother, that is.

  And me, of course.

  While all the excitement was happening on the surface, I was sinking deeper into cold and darkness. Part of me wondered why the rescue was taking so long. But mostly I watched the images floating before my eyes.

  They say that when you’re dying your whole life flashes before your eyes. It’s a slight exaggeration. I saw my mother when she was younger, before she had forgotten how to smile. I saw Dad and Rich Uncle Brian laughing and joking together. I saw Douglas Benson From Another Dimension jumping from a tree and fading from sight before he hit the ground. I saw Earth-Pig Fish floating on the surface of her bowl. I saw Sky. Not as a baby, but as she would be now. She was saying something, but I couldn’t work out what it was. Her face was serious, though, and I could tell by her eyes that what she wanted to say was very important. It was a curious mixture of images from my life and [maybe] images from beyond my death.

  I didn’t know what to make of it.

  It was Sky’s face that saved me. That and Douglas Benson From Another Dimension’s birthday present. I cannot remember doing this, but I must have pressed the trigger of the can that I’d put in my pocket before we set off. The can that was connected by a plastic tube to my false breasts. It was the passion in Sky’s face that pressed that trigger. I don’t want to get mystical, but my dead sister was yelling at me to do something. She was pulling me from death, from joining her. I read it in her face.

  The can injected pressurised air into my false breasts, which inflated to maximum size. In effect I was now wearing 10DDD floaties and they catapulted me to the surface, where I must have made a dramatic entrance, like a strangely endowed dolphin jumping through a hoop. Luckily, no one threw me a fish. Douglas Benson From Another Dimension dragged me to the pier where people, alerted by the drama, pulled me onto dry land. Well, dry wood, since I was lying next to my unconscious mother. Her eyelids fluttered open and her gaze went to my chest. One breast had deflated in the trauma of my impersonation of a surface-to-air missile. The other ballooned in a bizarre fashion.

  I vomited.

  My mother fainted again.

  Douglas Benson From Another Dimension kissed me.

  It was my first kiss and it was strange. His lips were cold and wet and I had vomited a bucketful of salty water, so it wasn’t in ideal conditions. But I remember wondering why people made such a fuss of it.

  For all that, I was glad he did it.

  The rest of my birthday passed in a haze. Two ambulances arrived. One took Dad and Rich Uncle Brian to hospital, while the other took me, Mum and Douglas Benson From Another Dimension. This was not the most harmonious of combinations. I would have mentioned this, but the paramedics were too busy applying an oxygen mask to my face to listen. I heard later that Dad woke up on the journey and found himself centimetres away from his brother. In his concussed state, Dad remembered that Rich Uncle Brian had kneed him in the head, preventing him from rescuing his daughter. So he tried to strangle RUB and had to be restrained.

  How would I rate the success of my plan to reconcile my family? On a scale of zero to ten?

  Around minus-fifteen.

  Still, I didn’t have to eat chicken parmigiana and listen to a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday To You’. That was a silver lining. The majority of the cloud, however, was still very dark.

  P

  IS FOR PICOULT

  ‘I would like to see Mr Dawson, please.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  This was always going to be tricky. Effective oral communication was vital, so I had written a variety of notes in advance to cover all eventualities. As you know, I am not comfortable with the spoken word when dealing with people for the first time. I sorted through the sheaves of paper in my hand and passed her a sheet.

  No. But tell him Candice Phee is here.

  He will want to see me.

  This always works in movies.

  I have no idea why.

  The receptionist glanced at the note and gave a look that said she thought I was at least one sandwich short of a picnic. Possibly an entire hamper. I am used to this, so I ignored her. She looked me up and down and didn’t appear impressed. Then she picked up her phone.

  ‘Mr Dawson? There is a young lady here who would like to see you. Her name is Candice Phee and she doesn’t have an appointment.’ I detected mockery in her pronunciation of the word ‘lady’, but she had a picture on her desk of a small child smiling so I forgave her. She was obviously a loving and caring mother. If not necessarily a loving and caring receptionist.

  She listened for a moment and then turned to me.

  ‘What is it about?’

  I shuffled through my sheaf of papers and found the right one.

  It is a delicate matter which will test his litigious powers. I cannot be more specific at this stage, but it will be a case that will attract national and possibly international media interest. It will seal Mr Dawson’s reputation as a formidable lawyer. When he hears the nature of the case, he will, I am sure, offer his services pro bono. If he scratches my back, I will scratch his. I speak metaphorically. Unless he really does have an itch, in which case I can be flexible.

  I was pleased with the pro bono bit. It is Latin and means ‘for free’. Mr Dawson would clearly respect a client with a firm grip of legal terminology. The receptionist read the letter, curled her lip and spoke into the phone.

  ‘She doesn’t know, but she wants it for free.’

  This was not fair, but I decided to hold my peace. Anyway, I didn’t have a note to cover this eventuality.


  ‘He will see you. Second door on your right.’

  I gathered up my pile of papers and followed the instructions. I knocked on the door, waited for a mumbled ‘come in’ and entered Mr Dawson’s office. He sat behind a large desk cluttered with briefs – by this, I mean papers about court cases rather than underwear. He glanced up as I came in. Mr Dawson was bald and his face looked like it had been slept in. Heavy jowls and a mournful expression. A picture came to mind of a bulldog on tranquillisers. This was exciting. I could imagine him in a white, powdered wig, addressing a jury, objecting to opposing counsel and resting his case. I felt certain I had chosen the right person.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he said.

  I handed him a note and he peered at it over small rimless spectacles. This was a good touch and he rose further in my estimation. He handed the note back.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ he said.

  I read the note myself.

  Sorry I haven’t completed the assignment yet, Miss Bamford, but the matter is well in hand.

  No wonder he didn’t understand. I’d given him the wrong note. Why had I brought that one along anyway? I flicked through my sheaf, found the correct one and passed it over. He read again, glanced up at me once and then re-read the note. I waited patiently and resisted the strong urge to hum. Finally, he put the note on his desk and peered at me over the top of his specs. His expression was difficult to read.

  ‘You want me to take legal action against your parents so you are removed from their house and placed under local authority care? In effect, you want to divorce them and find foster parents?’

  ‘Correct,’ I replied. I trusted myself with that word and hadn’t felt the need to write it down. ‘Certainly,’ I added, which was testament to my confidence.

  Mr Dawson gazed at me for a moment, took off his glasses and rubbed at the corners of his eyes.

  ‘You haven’t been reading Jodi Picoult, have you?’ he asked. His voice seemed tired. ‘My Sister’s Keeper?’