Page 30 of I'll Look for You, Everywhere
‘You know how I feel about Oxford.’
‘It’s Oxford University. No one gives a fuck that you got denied tenure.’
He steps closer, the smell of expensive cologne and aftershave drowning me in the open air. And then his hand is on my shoulder, gripping with force. From the outside, the motion could look endearing. A father giving his son advice. I stop breathing, a Breitling reflecting the sunlight in my eye, as he leans in to whisper in my ear.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’re going to cool it down with the attitude, Theo. You stay in my house for the summer, you treat me with a little respect, then you get the fuck out. Now get your car out of my parking spot. Last time I checked, you’re not the Sinclair with the fucking museum.’
Swallowing hard, I shove his hand off my shoulder and step back. He’s mad about the spot. I haven’t seen him in seven years and he’s angry I’m in his parking spot. I laugh to avoid having to look at him. So that the crack in my voice can be masked as purposeful.
‘Yes, sir.’ My voice is rough as I salute my father, my hand coming off my forehead to almost hit him in the nose. ‘I’m so sorry I’ve disrespected your beloved museum. Good luck.’ Winking, I turn to the car and get in and turn the engine on. The wheels squeal as I quickly back out of the spot and give him a final wave through the window. It’s only when I’m a few blocks down that I pull the car over, my hands shaking so badly I can’t hold the wheel.
17
MAGDALEN
Sitting on the leather-tufted bench in the middle of the gallery, I try not to feel bad for myself. Theo, for the second time today, has managed to make me feel worthless. Is there something about me that makes people angry? Even my own mother could find a way to hate the way I blink. And now Theo. Angry for patching me up, for driving me, for talking to me for longer than ten minutes. But as much as I want to hate him, I can feel that there is something bigger looming over him. If I squint my eyes and tilt my head, I can almost make out its shape above him.
But that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.
I hear someone walking up the stairs and hold my breath, fighting my usual instinct to hide. Gripping a leather button, I relax the rest of my body and pretend to be admiring one of the coffins. At any other time, I wouldn’t need to pretend. Although I’m the odd Savoy out, ancient Egypt was childhood. Sand dunes and Pharaoh statues, malachite and galena into kohl eyelines. We gathered around the fire on Fridays and listened to my father’s adventures sleeping with scorpions in Luxor.
But then I read Persuasion at an impressionable age and everything changed. My childhood was inherently masculine. Stories of Ra and Atum, the gods of Egypt, felt dipped in a boldness and vigour I could never relate to. Falling asleep to stories of creation and cataclysmic beginnings started inadvertently making me feel very small. What are my tears to the tears that created men and women?
But one of the books my mother came home with from the library was Jane Austen. We were fluent in English by then, but she still insisted on making me read at least one English book a month. And there it was, sitting on the kitchen table. It was a yellowing Bantam Classic edition with a portrait of a very pale Victorian woman on the front clad in black, eyes distant with what seemed like despair. Did my mother leave this book on purpose? Did she see how my eyes looked like hers? Or was it a blind choice off the trolley of unstacked books?
Either way, opening that first page felt like teenage rebellion. Anne and Wentworth’s ache made me tuck my knees between my chin and sigh until I was so deflated I couldn’t fathom why my stomach felt like it was burning a hole inside itself. Because even after Captain Wentworth went to sea and Anne felt old and unlovable, after a war, after death, after seven years of lost time, there was hope tucked in between the words of a letter. Enough hope for them both.
So I wanted to learn more about war. There were absences in Austen’s story. What did Wentworth see those seven years? How much of him did he have to leave at sea? Needless to say, the decision was a shock to my family. Random. Irresponsible. For weeks, my mother told me how careless it was to learn a new history when we had one at our doorstep.
‘How could you do this?’ She pulled at her hair. ‘It’ll destroy your father!’
As suspected, Papa agreed with a resigned sigh. A nonchalant shrug. I didn’t ask for much, so it felt like I had earned the right to choose this path. So I closed my door after dinner one night, quietly turned the key in the lock, and leafed through the pamphlets my guidance counsellor thrust at me when I mentioned literature, the turning point that sent me to Oxford.
The click of shoes draws me away from my thoughts and I look up. Maybe Theo has come back to apologize. To confess. But even as I think it, I know these are wishes. The Sinclairs do not apologize. To apologize would imply they could make mistakes! And the Sinclairs do not make mistakes. I turn my head to look, and see it’s definitely not Theo.
It’s his father.
Dexter Sinclair, much like his son, is an enigmatic figure I was cautious of even as a child. Perhaps it was his height. Standing at 6 foot 4, it felt like he lived on beanstalks and ate children for breakfast all the way up there. Or maybe it was how his face turned red and sweaty after every family dinner from too much drink, his arm snaking around my mother’s waist, a spot that I knew to be reserved only for my father’s hands. His Scottish accent was harsh, brute strength in his speech. He was opinionated, loud, never seen without a suit. But as I grew up, the fear dissipated and transitioned into cautionary respect. We were proud to live next to a man that had accomplished so much and looked that good doing it. In almost every way, Theo took after Dexter’s unnaturally good looks.
‘Good morning, Dexter,’ I say from the gallery. He looks up abruptly, his face full of irritation before registering it’s me and masking it with cool appraisal.
‘Good morning, Magdalen.’ His voice is smooth, and he halts in place when he sees me. It’s hard not to gawk as he sweeps a hand casually through his hair so similarly to Theo. He steps forward, one hand holding an expensive leather briefcase while the other finds the pocket of his trousers. In the dimly lit gallery, Theo and Dexter are almost identical and it makes my heart pang. So this is what he’ll grow up to be. Beautiful until the end, grey hair and all.
Dexter stands right above me so I have to crane my neck to look at him.
‘Did you catch Theo outside?’
His lips fall in a thin line, already failing to hide his agitation. What is it with the Sinclairs and their temper?
‘Yes,’ he sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose. ‘I forget how stubborn he is.’
Bending to place his briefcase on the floor, he silently asks for permission to sit next to me. I hesitate, pushing down the sickly feeling at his edging closeness. Don’t be ridiculous, my mind screams. He’s your father’s best friend.
I scoot over, suddenly wishing I’d never said good morning. Wishing I hadn’t asked Theo about things he’s too afraid to speak of. Sneaking one last glance at the stairwell, I slip a silent plea to Theo between the time it takes for the tip of Dexter’s shoe to graze the side of mine.
‘He’s just readjusting to Chivasso. Americans can be very different from Italians. Give him a minute.’ It feels like a vague enough thing to say that will both defend Theo and support Dexter.
He sighs for what feels like the tenth time since he’s arrived at the museum and I begin to feel bad for him. If he were an artefact in the museum, he would be titled Father in Pain, erected in Torino. Medium: spirit and flesh, failing heart. Loss of breath.
