Author: Sandra Cormier
Genre: Literary YA
Mallorca – September 1974
At times Rebecca imagined her father wasn't a project manager, but really a spy with obscure missions in dangerous, faraway places.
He'd blow back into whatever place they were living in at the time, with smiles and exotic gifts from afar. Her sister Lori would serenade him with her latest song, and Michael inevitably asked if Daddy had anything interesting in his pockets.
The fantasy faded when Rebecca's toys and books disappeared into cardboard boxes. As she sat wedged between her sister and brother on the center hump in the back seat of their red 1970 Firebird, her parents chain-smoked in the front seat and talked about mundane things like the latest episode of M*A*S*H. Tops of trees passed in a blur from the car windows as they followed a yearly succession of moving trucks.
"It's your father's job," was the only explanation Mom offered through clenched teeth as she extracted cups, saucers and ashtrays from boxes in a different rented living room in a different town with a different school.
Now they were in a completely different country. Rebecca had watched the tops of clouds from an airplane window as they flew across the ocean to Spain, then onward to Mallorca.
Only minutes into their "new adventure," Rebecca stood in the middle of the apartment trying not to listen to her parents arguing in the bedroom. Dad's low voice intersected Mom's shrill protests. Somewhere in the mix she heard, "New start," and "Time to think.”
Jeez, not again. She skirted the mound of suitcases in the living room, opened the balcony door and stepped into the heat. Flamenco music filtered from somewhere below, almost obliterated by the hiss of sand pulled to sea by the surf. The classical notes crept into her psyche with exotic sweetness, nothing like the raw guitar licks that blared from her sister's stereo back home.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sounds, if only to drown out her parents.
Dad finally came outside and leaned against the balcony railing. As usual, he hid his impatience behind a serene expression and a freshly lit cigarette.
Inside, the bang and crash of dishes punctuated Mom's side of the argument. She wore her emotions on the outside and dishwashing was always a clear indication of her mood. When she was in good spirits, she sang above the gentle clink of cutlery against crockery. When she was pissed off, plates clanged together like cymbals.
Dad squinted against the reflected sunlight and took a drag on his cigarette. He rubbed his chin with a knuckle and cocked his head at the door. "Don’t worry, she'll get used to this. She always does." He leaned an elbow on the railing and pointed south, over the expanse of Mediterranean. "Algeria is that way. See, it's not far. I'll be back for a visit before you know it."
She couldn't see. It was too far, beyond the horizon. "No schools there, huh?"
He gathered her in the crook of his arm and drew her close. His shirt smelled of Old Spice and menthol tobacco. His deep voice rumbled against her cheek as he assured her, "I think it'll be good for you to have new experiences."
That was always his copout. New experiences, old excuses. "But Dad, I was just getting to know everyone at high school." Behind her, Mom's strangled tirade escalated until she started to sound like Yosemite Sam. Rebecca winced and swallowed hard. "Couldn't we have just stayed in Saint John?"
He backed away and gave her shoulder a perfunctory rub. "I thought Saint John was going to be permanent, but when this came up, I couldn't let it pass by." He motioned toward the deep blue Mediterranean with his cigarette. "Look at this place. A winter without snow for once – it'll be fantastic."
The glass door slid open again. Rebecca turned to see her mother standing in the doorway. Mom glared at Dad's shoulder blades, while he seemed engrossed in the curl of blue smoke that drifted from his Export A.
Mom rubbed her eyes and huffed in that way she always did when she'd lost an argument. "By the way, thanks for leaving me with a sink full of dirty dishes and no food in the fridge. Will you at least stay long enough to help me shop for dinner?" She folded her arms and frowned. "Frank?"
Dad stiffened and stubbed out his cigarette on the balcony railing.
He made as if to slide past Mom, but apparently thought better of it and stopped to give her a brief peck on her pale cheek. "Sorry, Rachel – uh, Dear. I have a plane to catch. If you need any help getting around, I wrote Mrs. Shepard's number beside the phone. She knows the ropes around here."
Mom's eyes flared. "And who is this Mrs. Shepard?"
Dad blinked and took a deep breath. "She's Alan Shepard's wife. Alan works with me and she lives next door." He turned to Rebecca, his expression softening. "Their kids will be going to your school. Maybe you could be friends."
Rebecca responded with a stiff smile. Making friends wasn't as simple as being the same age and living in the same building. She lifted her hand in farewell but didn't say a word. She was afraid if she hugged him, she'd close her arms around him and refuse to let go. She'd look like a crybaby, and Dad would tell her to grow up.
The front door closed with a muffled slam. A moment later, Michael came outside and stood on tiptoe to peek over the railing. "Far out; a pool! I bet we could dive right off from here," he exclaimed, lifting one leg. He glanced at her with a wicked grin.
"Try it and you're dead, stupid," she replied. "We're three floors up."
"But that's the deep end."
"You could still do some damage. Don't even think about it." She rested her elbows on the railing and stared out to sea, imagining the North African coast with its whitewashed mosques and minarets and sand, and Bedouins with swirling robes. Dad was going to have the best time ever and she wished she could be with him.
She wondered if Bedouins still kidnapped Western girls and sold them into harems. It would be exciting to ride across the desert, live in tents and be rescued by some handsome guy with long hair like in Mom's romance novels.
Now those books were packed in a cardboard box in their basement along with winter clothes and knick-knacks they didn't want broken while Dad rented out the house. It seemed their lives revolved around boxes, even when they went nowhere.
They even had to give away their dog. That was the hardest part.
Bedouins were nomads, but they probably didn't have to leave so much behind.
When she wandered back into the apartment, her mother was stuffing peseta notes into her purse. "Well, we don’t eat until I go shopping." She checked for keys and headed to the door, muttering, "I hope to God this is enough money. How am I going to ask for anything?
I don't know Spanish. Your father knows Spanish. Jesus; I'm tired. I need a drink." She stood in the small entryway, hands on her hips and her purse swinging from her wrist. "Well, come on. Let's go."