Roxy had always assumed her father had taken her to London to show her off; she had just appeared in two music videos on MTV, a brand-new American invention in 1984. But those wretched moments inside her father’s mind revealed a different motive: education. That explained their initial visits to a cathedral and several art museums. Her father would lead Roxy to a painting or an altar, accost it with dubious inquisition, then glance at her expectantly, as if hoping the object had acted upon her in some way it refused to act upon him. “To hell with museums,” he said on the third day. Their joint failure brought them closer.
Roxy spreads apart her hair so that each sensor touches her scalp. She feels afraid, and has an impulse to put off the process. But she wants to be done in time for her greenhouse shift at three. She places the Consciousness Cube beside her futon bed and lies down carefully, so as not to disrupt the sensors. Artie climbs onto her chest and wedges his tiny head under her chin like a doorstop. She’s heard that you feel nothing during the externalization—can be asleep or awake, it makes no difference. But no sooner does the Cube begin to hum than Roxy experiences a swarm of memories like dust roused by vigorous cleaning. On their last day in London, her father took her to lunch at a fancy French restaurant in a neighborhood full of vintage clothing shops. They sat outdoors, the white tablecloth blinding in the sunlight. Her father gave her his sunglasses. They were entertaining a band: four long-haired English boys hardly older than Roxy, with incomprehensible accents. Her father and the band’s manager were making a deal, and the feeling was celebratory. Everyone drank champagne. The drummer nuzzled Roxy’s calf under the table and later intercepted her outside the ladies’ room, wagging an ampoule full of cocaine. Roxy snorted a bump into each nostril. The drummer tried to kiss her, but his sparse mustache was unappealing, and his breath smelled of paté. On another day, in another place, Roxy might have done anything—had sex with him in a bathroom stall, as she’d done twice at punk clubs in L.A. But not here. She returned to the table, luxuriating in her father’s evident relief at having her back. He put his arm around her and refilled her glass. The sun hammered down, but the champagne, straight from the ice bucket, cracked coldly in her chest.
After lunch, they all took a walk. Her father held her hand. London was heavy and dense and green. She felt grown-up at sixteen, walking beside the two men while the four musicians skulked and horsed around behind them. She swung her father’s arm, champagne and cocaine waltzing in her blood. In a park, they stood beside a lake full of swans and toy sailboats. As the musicians tried to push one another in, their manager turned suddenly to Roxy and asked, “What do you plan to do with your life?” Normally, she would have said, Become a dancer or an actress or just Be famous! （like every other L.A. kid）， might have mentioned the MTV videos and several more she was already booked to shoot. But Roxy said, “I want to make my mark,” with such crisp finality that both men laughed in surprise. She felt her father’s pride, exhilarating and new. Long after the musicians had drifted away, Roxy stayed with her father and the band’s manager, walking and talking long into the night. At ten o’clock, the sun was still up. It was the happiest day of her life.
“I want to live with you,” she told her father on the plane ride back to Los Angeles. She was still drinking champagne, although he had stopped.
“Won’t work, Rox,” he said. “I travel too much. And Kiki would miss you.”
“She’d be glad to get rid of me.”
“Everyone needs a sibling they can be close to.”
“I could come with you when you travel. Like now.”
“Be fun, wouldn’t it?”
He wore his reading glasses. Papers were stacked on his airplane tray, and a pile of cassette tapes he needed to “give a listen” on his Walkman. She understood then that their trip had ended. The perfect harmony she felt with her father, a symbiosis that made her old life obsolete, had been temporary. She started to cry.
“You’re tired,” he said. “I’ve worn you out. We’ve got a long flight, get some sleep.”