Four-year-old Summer twisted this way and that. Her hair, tangled and damp with cloying humidity, spread in dark, untidy trails across her pillow. Part way into the third bedtime story, her eyelids fluttered, then, slammed shut.
Mia, reached for the switch to propel the ceiling fan. She held her breath as the whoosh of rotor arms gathered speed to slice through the congealed air. Trickles of moisture ran down the sides of her face. She wiped them away before touching her lips to her daughter’s forehead. Silently, she wished her precious child, sweet dreams.
Outside Summer’s room Mia pressed her back against the wall, grateful for its solid strength. Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer for all the children whose dreams would only ever be nightmares.
A few moments later, she pulled towels, magazines, bucket and spade from a brightly-colored beach-bag slumped in a corner of the kitchen. The paraphernalia she’d rushed to gather earlier from the beach, trickled a fine layer of sand on the marble floor. It scrunched under her bare feet as she delved to the bottom of the bag to find the transparent, turquoise starfish. Mia picked it out, blew away the sand particles and pressed it into her palm. She understood why her daughter loved the smooth, liquid feel; how her face lit with fascination when the sun highlighted the floating, silver flecks.
Chris had bought the star on their first visit here, when Summer was barely a year old. A cheap souvenir her chubby fingers had held onto like a precious stone.
Mia stared at the photograph, edges curled from damp heat, fighting against a magnet holding it to the fridge; Summer’s baby feet stumbling on white sand, ‘clever-me joy in her eyes as she took her first wobbly steps. Mia tore herself away for fear of her mind slipping back. She couldn’t dwell on reminiscences—Chris holding them both so close.
‘My girls,’ he would murmur, brushing damp hair back from their faces with his feather touch.
The memories hurt.
A chill in her spine rushed upwards and spread across her shoulders. Her scalp prickled and contracted. She waited for the sensation to pass. And as it did, Mia worried about the threatening storm – her daughter’s sandcastle; the turreted palace they had built together some hours ago.
Summer, full of delight, had danced around it, jumping in and out of the deep moat she had tried to fill with water. Picking up her little red bucket, she made endless trips back and forth to the edge of the ocean; slow, deliberate steps, face rigid with concentration lest she spill a drop.
Mia had watched, her heart sinking with the water; inevitable, forlorn, leaving nothing but a dark stain in white sand.
Some things were impossible to save.
Mia glanced down at the starfish, tight in her hand. She placed it on the breakfast bar, traced a finger around the imprint left in her palm. It reminded her of the song her daughter loved to sing: ‘When you wish upon a star …’ The indentations faded, while her more permanent destiny lines remained. Did they really mean anything? The random thought brought a flood of tears.
Darkness brings shadows and all manner of wild imaginings which do not fit with the scrutiny of ]stark daytime. Opening the fridge door sent a beam of artificial light sliding across the floor. Mia took out the bottle of vodka, poured herself a generous measure. The added ice and tonic crackled like breaking glass, yet, nothing broke. Not even the storm.
This afternoon, on the beach, while Summer had busied herself with the moat, fast-gathering clouds had disturbed Mia. When they finally smudged the sun with gray, she began to pack up their belongings.
'My sandcastle?’ Summer had stood wide-eyed, looking to Mia for an answer.
‘Honey, we can’t take it home.’
‘Why?’ An innocent, quizzical face pleaded with her from under a floppy, pink hat.
‘Because it’s too heavy and because if we try, it’ll fall apart.’
‘Will it be here when we come back?’
‘You bet.’ Mia had held her breath for some kind of miracle. She knew the deception of those ripples gently swirling the shore. In a heartbeat, they could turn to white-foamed monsters.
‘When’s Daddy gonna come?’ Summer threw her arms skyward, just like Chris did when something frustrated him.
‘Soon, honey, soon.’
‘Daddy could do it.’
Mia slid sunglasses over her eyes and scanned the horizon. A pink backdrop glowed behind gray clouds as the sky turned to marble. A memory of the telephone call she had made yesterday to New York, slammed through her head. There had been no expertise or discretion in her words; truth, ugly but necessary, the only option. She searched for more honesty to comfort her daughter. Finally, as her gaze rested on the sandcastle, she’d answered, ‘I guess Daddy could.’
* * *
Still waiting for the first hammer of rain, Mia sipped her second drink. From the terrace, the only visible lights were dots on the horizon, like stars fallen from the sky. Except, Mia knew they were the surrounding Panama Islands and maybe the odd cruise ship. Far away and silent as the air, life still pulsated.
Chris had bought this condo; their paradise-island, distancing the craziness of New York. The thought stuck in her throat. Yet for now, she had to be grateful for the escape. Mia didn’t want to think about New York. She deliberately focused on the sky, wondering how long the storm would take to reach Boca Island.
Her glass was half empty. She wandered back to the kitchen, topped it up - contemplated drinking neat vodka, but the ice had melted, so she found more. The splash of tonic was added as an afterthought; Mia, already fighting her way through a fuzzy unreality.
The lounge felt cool after the heat on the terrace. Mia carefully placed her drink on a side table, pulled a cigarette from a gold case, lit it and slid her bare back against white silky cushions. The sweeping, curved sofa gave a perfect view of the sky; darker now than she’d ever seen it. This was usually her favourite time of day - when Chris was here. They would sit together, her with some non-alcoholic fruit concoction, and him with his brandy, stargazing through panoramic windows.
Mia glanced at her watch. He was due to board his flight at 21:30. She drew on the cigarette. How Chris hated her smoking! When they'd first met, he’d made such a fuss about it, she'd quit. For him. But alone, Mia enjoyed the thrill of making her own decisions. Like the drink.
He would say, ‘I want you to keep your looks, baby. Alcohol and nicotine are the quickest way to lose them.’
She would nod in agreement. Why upset him; the odd drink or cigarette would do no harm. And anyway, what he didn’t know couldn't hurt. Mia’s hands shook. Ash fell onto the cream rug. ‘Shit,’ she said, as she rubbed at it with her bare foot. Chris would have a breakdown if he saw that.
Mia sashayed to the kitchen. The alcohol had a strange effect on her legs. It took her some time to find a brush and a can of air freshener.
Problem fixed, air, fresh as the daisies pictured on the can, she glanced at the time again -20:10. How come minutes crept so slowly when, for Mia, it was more usual to lose track of the days? She leaned back to rest her head. Her eyes threatened to close. Fearful of falling into an alcohol-induced sleep, she stared at the ceiling; compared the unlit lights, embedded into spotless white plaster, to the black, gaping holes in her heart.
Chris loved it here. Mia had once yearned for a time when they could stay forever, but long ago stopped believing his promises to retire.
‘Not a day past forty, baby,’ he would say, referring to his age.
Another eight years. Mia tried to imagine herself, aged thirty. It seemed a lifetime away.
Unlike Mia, Chris could never sit still for long. Even during a meal together, he would wander off with his cell plugged to his ear, leaving her with an unfinished conversation. Other times he would have to cut short a weekend visit, leaving Summer, in tears. Perhaps it was a small price to pay. Hadn’t he always told her his business was 24/7? Hadn’t he told her his clients paid for their lifestyle? Then again, he was generous with his money, if not with his time.
What did she have to complain about? Her life was good, wasn’t it? Mia had often tried to weigh up the odds, but now she knew the odds were never going to be good enough.
* * *
At eighteen, Mia Stein was the new face of Lustre Fashions; her photos graced billboards from London to New York. In those days, she didn’t have a clue who Chris was.
On the night of a promotion event for Lustre, Mia had caught his persistent gaze. From across the table, in flickering candlelight, his dark, handsome features captured more than her curiosity. He’d borrowed a pen from the guy next to him, scribbled something on his place- card and turned it round to face her. She took in the name, printed in gold letters, a hand-drawn heart underneath. Mia blushed and turned away.
‘Christiano Fontanez?’ she whispered to the girl next to her; Jen, her agent.
‘Chris? Financial advisor or something, I dunno. Influential man, though, Mia. I’d steer clear if I were you. You’ll ruin a promising career.’
Words said too late - too late to stop Mia falling. Ears blocked, vision distorted, she drowned in a storm of sexual chemistry.
‘Take no notice of her,’ said Chris, when Mia teased him about Jen’s advice. ‘The only thing you’ll ruin is her financial investment in you. You don’t need her. Besides, I’ve just fallen in love.’
Any sensible decision Mia might have made was taken out of her hands. Four months later she walked out of Christiano’s bathroom with a blue line running through a white plastic stick. A huge grin lit both their faces.
They flew to LasVegas and married secretly. Chris preferred to keep a low public profile. Mia quit her agent, and her own profile nosedived. Chris told her she’d never have to work again.
Almost five years later, she wondered if ignorance was the bliss it was cracked up to be. Remembering her recent invitation to lunch with Jen, she wished she had never even thought to accept. After all, ignorance is innocence, and innocence never needed a conscience.
Rainy days in NewYork were never good ones for Mia. Had the day Jen phoned been sunny, Mia would have taken Summer to the park, instead.
‘I could have another contract for you, Mia. C’mon, The guy from Golden Cosmetics, is gonna be there- and Annie May, the new Lustre girl.’
‘Then use Annie May. You know how unreliable I am, Jen.’
‘She doesn’t have your spark, Mia. And G.C. have asked me what the hell happened to you. C’maahn, Mia. Do something for yourself for once.’
With Chris away on business, Mia hired a baby sitter, and for the first time in years felt the rush of excitement she remembered from her modelling days. No harm done, she told herself. What Chris doesn’t know … there wasn’t a doubt in her mind about turning the work down – if it was offered – it was more to do with making her own decision for a change.
Lunch had gone well. John Clarkson, the Golden Cosmetic’s guy, made it more than a little obvious that Mia would be perfect for their needs. Under the table, Jen had gently pressed her foot on top of Mia’s. Mia, unconcerned, would tell Jen later, that John Clarkson could go jump off Manhattan Bridge.
Mia, enjoying herself up to that point, became increasingly confused thereafter. Was it something to do with the little white filigree plate of chocolates Annie May had pushed toward her at the end of the meal?
‘Oh, have one,’ Annie May had said when Mia shook her head.
‘No, really, I don’t eat cho …’
‘You mean, not in public? You have a kid, don’t you?’
‘I have a little girl, and no, not in private either. I don’t have secrets.’ Mia laughed. The edge in the girl’s voice sawed into her.
Jen shifted in her seat, and cut in. ‘I know Mia. She’d rather have ice cream, wouldn’t you, honey?’
‘Erm, yes. Why thank you. That would be good with me.’
John Clarkson rose from the table with an, ‘Excuse me,’ and disappeared.
Annie May, visibly deflated. After her long outward breath, an uncomfortable silence ensued.
‘How’s Chris these days?’ The hush was broken by none other than Annie May, as John Clarkson seated himself back at the table.
‘Great. Thanks for asking. I didn’t realise you knew him.’
‘I thought everyone knew Chris. Some better than others, I guess.’ Annie May’s tiger eyes settled on Mia.
‘I don’t know what you mean?’ Mia could sense an intangible nitric acid. It threatened to explode in her face.
Annie May placed her hand on John Clarkson’s immaculate suit jacket. ‘She doesn’t know what I mean, John. D’ya think I should tell her?’
Mia, beyond caring; about her, John Clarkson, or Golden-freakin’-Cosmetics, had heard enough. Why the hell had she wasted her time – or theirs? She threw off Jen’s restraining hand on her arm and stood up. ‘Sorry, Jen, Mr Clarkson.’ Snatching her purse from the chair, she marched off to the restroom to compose herself before leaving.
It was there that Annie May had walked in whilst Mia reapplied lipstick. It was there, on a rainy Thursday afternoon, in the plush restroom of a New York restaurant, she was shown pictures, given names and facts; facts that made slow but obvious sense. After which, Mia worked it out all by herself on her way back home.
Chris’s usual phone call that evening, confirmed to Mia he was in Columbia.
I’m taking Summer to Boca, tomorrow,’ she’d said.
‘Great! I’ll join you Monday. I’m back in New York, Sunday evening. Book me a flight. Miss you two like crazy. Have fun, sweetheart.’
She had waited, counting every second until she arrived in Boca, before making her own phone call.
***
Mia shifted her position on the sofa. Perspiration ran down her back. An avalanche of skewed emotions pummelled her head. If only she could figure out a way to explain to Summer.
She looked at her watch, swallowed the last of the drink and pointed the remote to the plasma screen. The television fizzed with static, the first real sound of the evening …
‘… Welcome back to CNN World News. We’re going right over to our reporter at Kennedy Airport and our top story tonight. Melvin, good evening to you, sir. What’s going on there right now?’
The momentary voice delay caused Mia to draw in her breath. Her eyes went past the news reporter as scenes of police filtered through the background.
‘Well, right now, I can tell you, the police have detained five men, and I’m told there have been more arrests, both in the United States and various parts of South America. Here at Kennedy, two men were seriously injured in a shoot-out at approximately 7.30 this evening; a policeman, whose name has yet to be released, and a thirty-two year old man we understand to be the mastermind behind one of the biggest child-trafficking rings ever smashed.’
The camera panned closer.
‘This evening, right here behind me, the man checked in on Delta flight 074 to Panama. As police surrounded him, he attempted an escape through the terminal. At this point in time I can’t tell you details of exactly what happened, but three shots were fired. Evidence, including forged child’ passports were found in the man’s hold luggage. The NYPD revealed that investigations related to this gang had been on-going for months, but the breakthrough came as a direct result of new information received just before the weekend. We can tell you, the child victims were mainly from South America.’
‘Thank you, Melvin.We’ll be back a little later for updates on that story …’
Mia clicked off the TV.
Slowly, oh so slowly, she grasped at walls and furniture as she stumbled her way to the kitchen.
Summer’s blue starfish glinted at her from the counter top. She ran the tip of her finger around the shape. ‘When you wish upon a star …’ A strange and bizarre urge to see Chris’s destiny lines forced her lips wide, despite her tears.
The storm hadn’t broken. Not yet. Mia chanced one more wish; perhaps, at least Summer’s sandcastle could be saved.