Wistful Watermarks

I always had a keenness for either playing or watching games.

From my memories archive, I picture Rhea and I seated high in an indoor stadium. We sat on bright blue plastic seats, hard to the buttocks and lacking upper back support. The rows around us filled, body by body.

Rhea crossed and recrossed her legs in anticipation while I continually flexed my toes in my sneakers. We linked our arms tight to reduce our mutual jitters.

Alina and Alicja were about to play competitive table tennis for the first time.

It was mid-2005, and we resided in Melbourne as a family, where I now ran my own architectural business.

I scrutinised the stadium's surroundings inquisitively. This was the netball centre where Coral and Ruby had played in a final years ago —that evening emerged with clarity. My heart jumped as I watched my twins make their way to the side corridor and the changing rooms. Their fair ponytails flipped beyond my craned view.

Alina and Alicja disappeared into Ruby's old kissing haunt!

Girls encompassed my life — precisely what a guy wants when he is young and rarely manages to achieve.

Yet here, as a father, I was circled by four grown daughters. Miranda studied at college, having turned eighteen. Alicja and Alina graced fifteen, and Phoebe recently turned eleven.

Rhea asked if I wanted a coffee from the vending machine.

I perched on the edge of my seat, trying to scout the twins. My eyes zigged and zagged in a regular dart.

Rhea stood and tapped my shoulder, "You're more nervous than the girls getting ready at home! Coffee!"

Vending machine coffee was not my preferred option; however, my throat itched dry. Rather than mumble a toey yes, I gave a thumbs up.

Rhea brushed my cheek and promised a speedy turnaround.

I watched Rhea march down the concrete steps, collecting her composure as she smoothed the flaps of her navy jacket.

As she descended farther, I pretended to stand and stretch, yet my eyes swooped to that damn hidden corridor with a hawklike focus. My heart rate settled once the twins emerged in their match outfits and squeezed on the side bench between their teammates. I sank into my inflexible seat, relaxed that my daughters had no male company.

A paper cup appeared before my eyes. Rhea lowered it and placed the coffee in my hand. I offered no response; I tracked our girls. The warm coffee soothed my scratchy throat.

I finally thanked Rhea.

The twins played their table tennis matches. They won their singles games but lost their doubles match.

Later at home, I wondered, Did the twins have boyfriends? 

I asked Rhea as we headed to bed, wondering if maybe she knew.

Rhea didn't know. She didn't think so.

She suggested, "It's Miranda you should be asking about."

Ask what?

Miranda was busy juggling study, a relationship, learning to drive, and chasing money – all at the priority of the moment. From what I could tell, her behaviour wasn't ringing any alarm bells. Like most college kids, she always completed her assignments at the last minute. Like many young women, it took her an hour or more to decide what to wear on an outing with her boyfriend, Dale. Miranda practised driving in whatever spare hours we could manage. My eldest daughter also built independence by working part-time, grinding for extra cash, usually on the weekends.

I wondered if Rhea meant Miranda's recent job change. At fifteen, she started working at a chain store but now wanted more variety.

God - Alina and Alicja would wish for a casual job soon!

Our household had raised excitement for Miranda and her new part-time job, a bistro-tavern, a stylishly refurbished establishment.

In bed, I asked Rhea, "What is it with Miranda?"

"It's Dale," she said, rubbing her palms.

The boyfriend.

He reminded me of a younger Josh! A boy who liked girls and cars and action.

I let Rhea continue, "They are up and down again, and it's more than my female intuition", as she pushed back her hair.

This was not what a dad liked to hear.

"Well, can I help," I broached, lacking confidence in understanding a young woman's mind.

"Miranda will talk, either to you or me. The gossip is that Dale wants to travel rather than study, which means not being with our daughter."

Rhea pursed her lips, and her eyes honed to the photo of our girls atop the drawer beside her bed. I closed the space and cuddled her. She slept in my arms, the lamp light on. After I flicked the light, I tossed and turned. I needed to find the time to talk with Miranda.

I found an opportunity to chat with her a couple of days later. I combined Miranda's driving lesson with dropping her off at her new workplace. I thought I'd start once we parked.

"Excellent reverse park," I congratulated her.

She nailed it on a one-way street! I waited until Miranda turned off the ignition.

"I'll sit. It's too early to go in," she decided, here for a training session at the bistro.

We swapped positions in the car, readying ourselves for me to go home in a few minutes.

I started casually, "Do you know anyone at your new workplace?"

I eased indirectly towards inquiring about Dale.

Miranda perked, "Yes," happy to chat for a minute or two.

I felt relieved as it's nice to know a face in a new place.

My daughter continued, "Michael, Michael Marre. I shared a language class last semester. His French is way better than mine!"

My chin dipped and nearly hit the steering wheel. I pushed back against the headrest.

"Are you okay!" queried Miranda.

I pictured Paris Ruby! 

Ruby and Michael in the convenience store. 

Now, Miranda and Michael met as young adults.

I fibbed, "Getting comfortable."

"I better go," Miranda said, "Rather be early than late!"

She nearly shut the passenger door before I pressed, "How's Dale?"

I dipped my head sideways to catch her face.

Miranda popped her head inside the car and smiled with her eyes, "Dale's fine," she reassured me.

Her eyes sparkled; in this instance, they reminded me of Rhea.

I watched my daughter cross the busy road in front of the bistro.

A car caught my eye, parking near the tavern entrance. While its shiny silver colour and sleek lines were attention-grabbing, the learner's plates induced a second glance. I glanced at the driver, a young dark-haired guy who exited the driver's side and waved at Miranda on the footpath outside the tavern.

My daughter stalled her step, offered a greeting smile, and the pair disappeared through the darkened glass of the tavern door.

Before I collected my thoughts from the car's passenger door alighted Ruby!

Blatant staring, I studied her profile like a silhouette. She wore jeans, a dark blazer and a scarf. I watch her peel the learner L off the boot, enter the car, and drive off.

Look away!

I struggled to focus elsewhere until I centred on the key chain dangling from the ignition. My gaze alternated between Ruby and my car keys. I instantly replayed the cameo scene in my head.

She removed the L-plate at the rear of the silver car, skirted the curb at pace and plopped herself in the driver's seat. She pulled the L-plate off the inside front windscreen, half turned her head to check the left, indicated and joined the traffic flow.

I had work to do and places to be. I started my engine, indicated, checked the right lane and eased into traffic. My mind ordered into auto-response to direct my reactions to the road ahead of me, behind, and around me.

My God damn memory summoned information in a dizzying, unstructured sequence.

Ruby!

My ego screamed.

This street, which had no previous meaning to me, was now drenched with connotation, no longer merely buildings, concrete, and tar.

Ruby and this avenue joined in unison. 

A personal connection to a place is unique. 

Even a street curb can be saturated with wistfulness!

My mind entered a loop of disarray. I pictured Ruby endlessly. I compiled more of the snapshot scene outside the tavern in each review of her image.

Ruby pushed her hair off her face, exposing her petite ears. Her face retained its youthful glow. I recalled I gasped when she whipped her watermelon scarf across her jacket shoulder on the footpath.

The svelte brunette's sure movement defied age, like memory.

As I processed Ruby from the tavern, the chocolate brunette of Paris fixated in my mind. The brunette's youthful pixie facets materialise, her sharp cheeks and thin lips. A lithe, rapid flurry of Parisian images swished through my head quicker than the flick of her scarf.

Mocha, a stairwell, an alleyway, a kitchenette, a bathroom and a bedroom! 

I tried to be rational.

The parallel lives we lead— hit or intersect. 

I drove home. My mind issued strict instructions to focus on a current design project.

I let my inner eye images of Ruby fade to wistful watermarks.