Half the World Away - Cath Staincliffe

© 2015

For Daniel

Fēi cháng gǎn xiè.

Yòng wǒ quánbù de ài.

Lorelei is leaving. Tom, my ex, and I drive her to the airport. A bright, blustery September afternoon. The sky a high dome of blue, chalk-marked with jet trails, the trees along the roadside heavy with leaves.

A cold, jittery feeling in my stomach, my jaw tense.

‘You’ve got your passport?’ I turn round from the front seat, an excuse as much as anything to see her, to see more of her.

‘Yes.’

‘Money?’ Tom says.

‘Da-ad.’

‘Well, it has been known, babe,’ he says.

‘Once,’ she huffs, ‘once I forgot things.’

‘Everything,’ he says. ‘Not so hot on the house keys either, as I recall.’

Lorelei laughs, a sudden peal of delight, then mock-outrage. ‘Like, you’re so organized,’ she says to him.

‘I’m here.’

‘Late,’ Lorelei says.

‘Ten minutes,’ he says. ‘You’ve got plenty of time – your flight’s not till eight.’

‘Eight forty-five,’ she says.

‘Jo – you said eight.’ He glances at me.

‘I lied,’ I say, ‘to account for your pitiful time-keeping.’

Lori laughs again.

The short-stay car park is busy; we find space on the very top, open to the elements. Lori insists on carrying her rucksack herself. It is nearly as big as she is. She looks like she’ll topple backwards, be stuck like a turtle. Tom takes her hand luggage.

‘Photo,’ I say.

She poses, hands on the rucksack straps. Her hair chocolate, shoulder length, with shocking-pink tips, choppy fringe. Leather jacket, pink T-shirt, skinny black jeans on skinny legs, purple Doc Marten boots. I take some pictures.

‘Tom?’

He stands beside her, dwarfing her. Hard to believe they’re related. Tom as fair-haired as she is dark, but they both have olive skin that tans easily. Down to some Maltese ancestor of his. I burn and peel at any lick of sunshine. Her dark hair, her petite frame, she’s inherited from me. Though I’m no longer skinny after having three kids and many years in a sedentary occupation.

‘Now you, Mum,’ Lori says.

We swap places. Tom does the honours. I chat away, fighting an urge to weep that makes my cheekbones ache.

‘You got your tickets?’ Tom says, in the lift down to the terminal.

She sticks her tongue out at him.

I promise myself I will not cry. It isn’t the first time she’s left home, after all: she’s been away at uni for three years. Back every ten weeks with washing and empty pockets and a ravenous appetite. Nocturnal, living in a different time zone from the rest of us.

But she has never been so far away. Tom is all for it. Big adventure, he says. And he’s lent her the airfare, with no expectation he’ll be getting it back anytime soon. His latest venture is doing well.