Skye bought football boots, flashy beyond Nathan’s wildest dreams. They had ten differently coloured inserts for designer stripes, extra studs, and a tool kit. She threw in an England strip for nine-year-olds and paid for everything with a credit card in the name of Skye Rosetti. She caught me looking and said, “I had to marry a Rosetti for the Green Card. But I liked the name so I kept it.”
I called on all my nerve and asked, “What happened to Mr. Bo?”
“Oh look, shoes,” she cried and flung herself through the door of the fanciest, most minimal shoe shop I’d ever seen.
“Do we have to?” Nathan whined. He wanted to change into his England strip.
“Ungrateful little toad,” Skye said cheerfully. “Here, kid, take your mom shopping.” She handed him a roll of twenty-pound notes.
“Wow!” he said.
“No,” I said. “Absolutely, no.”
“Fuck off,” she said. “Have a good time. Meet me at the food court on the ground floor in an hour. Don’t be late. And kid? I want to see at least one strictly-for-fun gift for your mom. Don’t try to scoop it all — I know you guys.”
“She said ‘fu...”
“Nathan,” I warned as we walked away, “grownups say stuff. And don’t think we’re going to spend all that money. You don’t want your aunt to think you’re greedy, do you?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
All kids are wanty — they can’t help it. But I love the way he’s shocked by swearing. I melt at his piety. He wouldn’t believe it if I told him what I was like at his age. And I was the goody-goody one who crawled away from a smashed-up childhood via the schoolyard.
An hour later he had the hoodie jacket he’d wanted for months. He also bought a notebook and the complete range of metallic coloured gel pens. I chose the Best of Blondie CD for myself because for some reason I can’t listen to Blondie without wanting to dance. There was still a thick wedge of money to give back to Skye.
She was ten minutes late, and when she turned up she was followed by Wayne, who was carrying enough bags to fill my spare room from floor to ceiling.
We sat in the octagon-shaped food court, which had a carp pool and a fountain at its centre. Wayne took most of the bags back to the car.
Skye said, “C’mon over here, kid, I got something else for you.”
“Skye.” I held my hand up. “Stop. We have to talk about this. You’re putting me in a very awkward position.”
“I knew you’d spoil it.” Nathan’s mutinous lower lip began to shake.
Skye said, “Look at it this way, Sis — how many birthdays have I missed? How many...?”
“Nine,” Nathan interrupted, “and nine plus nine Christmases make, um, eighteen.”
“See how smart he is? He’s a good kid who goes to school and learns his times tables, and I got a lot of auntying to catch up with. Right, kid?”
“Right.”
“But I understand your mom’s point of view. She doesn’t want me to spoil you. Your mom likes to do things the hard way, see. And I don’t want to spoil you either, ’cos I think you’re perfect the way you are. So here’s what we’ll do. Do you have a cell phone?”
“We call them mobiles over here,” Nathan said bossily. “Mum’s got one but it’s old and she says we can’t afford two.”
“I can’t afford two sets of bills,” I said. “Skye, you would not be doing me a favour if you’re thinking of giving him one.” I put the roll of twenties we hadn’t spent into her hand. “You’ve been very kind, but rich relations can be too expensive.”
She stared at the money in astonishment. Then she closed her hand over it and tucked it safely into her handbag. “Okay, okay. But I’ve got two phones and they have lots of cool applications. Want to play a game, kid?”
I watched them poring intently over the phones, two curly heads close enough to touch. Nathan’s love of technology has been obvious since he first tried to feed his cheese sandwich into the VCR slot, so he didn’t take long to master Skye’s phone. I kept my mouth shut, but I was proud of him.
Suddenly I was content. I was drinking good coffee and eating a fresh Danish with my clever son and my unfamiliar sister. I was not counting pennies and rationing time. Worry went on holiday.
“Can I go, Mum?” Nathan was tugging my sleeve, his eyes alive with fun.
“What? Where?”
“Just down the end there.” Skye pointed to the far end of the mall. “He’ll have my phone and be in touch at all times. You don’t need to worry.”
“I’m Nathan Bond, secret agent.”
“I don’t know,” I began, but exactly then Skye turned her face away from Nathan, towards me, and I saw with dismay that she’d begun to cry. So I let him go.
“Gimme a minute.” She blotted her eyes on her fur-trimmed cuff. “That’s a terrific kid you got there. I guess you musta done something right.”
“What happened to you, Skye?”
“Mr. Bo died a year ago. He was shot by some country cops in a convenience-store raid. Stupid bastard. I wasn’t with him — hadn’t been for years — but we kept in touch. That’s when I started to look for you. I thought if he was dead, you could forgive me.”
“Oh, Skye.” I took her hand. Just then I heard my son’s voice say, “Nathan to HQ — I’m in position. Can you hear me?”
She picked up her phone. “Loud and clear. Commence transmission. You remember how to do that?” She held the phone away from her ear and even in the crowded food court I heard the end of Nathan’s indignant squawk. She gave me a watery smile but her voice was steady.
He must have started sending pictures because she forgot about me and stared intently at her little screen. Then she said, “HQ to Nathan — see that tall man in black? He’s got a black-and-red scarf on. Yes. That’s the evil Dr. Proctor.”
“Skye?” I put my hand on her arm but she shook me off, got up, and moved a couple of steps away.
I got up too and heard her say, “...to the men’s room. Wayne will be there. He’ll give you the goods. Can you handle that?”
“No, he can’t handle that,” I shouted, grabbing for the phone. “What’re you doing, Skye?”
She twisted out of my grasp. “Let go, stupid, or you’ll wreck everything. You’ll put your kid in trouble.”
I took off, sprinting down the mall, dodging families, crowds, balloons, and Santas, cracking my shins on push chairs, bikes, and brand-new tricycles.
I arrived, out of breath and nearly sobbing with anxiety, at one of the exits. There was no Nathan, no tall man in black, no Wayne. I saw a security uniform and rushed at him. “Have you seen my son? He’s wearing the England strip, red and white boots, and a black hoodie. He’s nine. His name’s Nathan.” I was jumping up and down. “I think he might’ve gone into the Gents with a tall man in black and a black-and-red scarf.” Terror gripped the centre of my being. “I don’t know where the Gents is.”
“Kids do wander off this time of year,” the security man said. “Me, I think it’s the excitement and the greed. I shouldn’t worry. I’ll go look for him in the toilets, shall I? You stay here in case he comes back.”
But I couldn’t wait.
He said tiredly, “Do you know how many kids there are in England strips this season? Wait here; you aren’t allowed in the men’s facility.”
I couldn’t wait there, either. I pushed in behind him, calling my son’s name. There were several boys of various ages — several men too — but no Nathan, no Wayne, and no man in black.
“Don’t worry,” the security man said, although he was himself beginning to look concerned. “I’ll call this in. Natty...”