The Girl You Left Behind

to sort
     through it all and he says it has to be out by today. These men are just dumping it on
     the street and I have no idea what I’m going to do with it.’
    She remembers how David had taken charge,
     how he had told Liv to take the woman to the café across the road, how he had
     remonstrated with the men in Spanish as the American woman, whose name was Marianne
     Johnson, sat and drank a glass of iced water and gazed anxiously across the street. She
     had only flown in that morning, she confided. She swore she did not know whether she was
     coming or going.
    ‘I’m so sorry. When did your
     mother die?’
    ‘Oh, three months ago. I know I should
     have done something sooner. But it’s so hard when you don’t speak Spanish.
     And I had to get her body flown home for the funeral … and I just got divorced
     so there’s only me doing everything …’ She had huge white knuckles
     beneath which she had crammed a dizzying array of plastic rings. Her hairband was
     turquoise paisley. She kept reaching up to touch it, as if for reassurance.
    David was talking to a man who might have
     been the landlord. He had appeared defensive initially, but now, ten minutes later, they
     were shaking hands warmly. He reappeared at their table. She should sort out which
     things she wanted to keep, David said, and he had a number for a shipping company that
     could pack those items and flythem home for her. The landlord had
     agreed to let them remain in the apartment until tomorrow. The rest could be taken and
     disposed of by the removal men for a small fee. ‘Are you okay for money?’ he
     had said quietly. The kind of man he was.
    Marianne Johnson had nearly wept with
     gratitude. They had helped her move things, stacking objects right or left depending on
     what should be kept. As they had stood there, the woman pointing at things, moving them
     carefully to one side, Liv had looked more closely at the items on the pavement. There
     was a Corona typewriter, huge leather-bound albums of fading newsprint. ‘Mom was a
     journalist,’ said the woman, placing them carefully on a stone step. ‘Her
     name was Louanne Baker. I remember her using this when I was a little girl.’
    ‘What is that?’ Liv pointed at a
     small brown object. Even though she was unable to make it out without stepping closer,
     some visceral part of her shuddered. She could see what looked like teeth.
    ‘Oh. Those. Those are Mom’s
     shrunken heads. She used to collect all sorts. There’s a Nazi helmet somewhere
     too. D’you think a museum might want them?’
    ‘You’ll have fun getting them
     through Customs.’
    ‘Oh, God. I might just leave it on the
     street and run.’ She paused to wipe her forehead. ‘This heat! I’m
     dying.’
    And then Liv had seen the painting. Propped
     up against an easy chair, the face was somehow compelling even among the noise and the
     chaos. She had stooped and turned it carefully towards her. A girl looked out from
     within the battered gilt frame, a faint note of challenge in her eyes. A great swathe of
     red-gold hair fell to her shoulders; a faintsmile spoke of a kind of
     pride, and something more intimate. Something sexual.
    ‘She looks like you,’ David had
     murmured, under his breath, from beside her. ‘That’s just how you
     look.’
Liv’s hair was blonde, not red, and short. But she had known
     immediately. The look they exchanged made the street fade.
    David had turned to Marianne Johnson.
     ‘Don’t you want to keep this?’
    She had straightened up, squinted at him.
     ‘Oh – no. I don’t think so.’
    David had lowered his voice. ‘Would
     you let me buy it from you?’
    ‘Buy it? You can have it. It’s
     the least I can do, given you’ve saved my darned life.’
    But he had refused. They had stood there on
     the pavement, engaged in a bizarre reverse haggling, David insisting on giving her more
     money than she was comfortable with. Finally, as Liv continued to sort through a rail of
     clothes, she turned to see them shaking on a price.
    ‘I would gladly have let you have
     it,’ she said, as David counted out the notes. ‘To tell you the truth, I
     never much liked that painting. When I was a kid I used to think she was mocking me. She
     always seemed a little snooty.’
    They had left her at dusk with his mobile
     number, the pavement clear in front of the empty apartment, Marianne Johnson gathering
     her belongings to go back to her hotel. They had walked