Page 5 of Just Come Over
She hadn’t cried all those three days, or during the days before, when Dylan had been slipping away, a pale wraith of the laughing, irresponsible, impossibly handsome rugby player who’d alternated his brilliance with frustrating lapses, on the field and off, and had never understood why. She’d watched him leaving her, and she’d been numb. Stunned into silence even in her mind, pulled into the ghost realm where the almost-dead walked.
Now, if you believed in Maori tradition, Dylan’s wairua, the quicksilver brightness that was his soul, free of the suffering and the fear, had winged its way northward to Te Rerenga Wairua, the leaping-off place of the spirits at the northernmost tip of New Zealand. The essence of him, the best of him, had slid down the pohutukawa root and into the sea, and had gone home to Hawaiiki to be with the ancestors. But she was still here. And it was so hard to be here.
The sob ripped from her chest like it was taking a piece of her with it. And then the rest came, and she could no more hold them back than the Tasman could keep its waters from merging with the Pacific. The tears rolled down her cheeks and soaked Rhys’s white shirt, and he held her in those strong arms, said nothing, and waited them out like the shelter waited out the storm. And when she’d finished crying at last, she hadn’t wanted to go.
Rhys was the first one to step back. Afterwards, she remembered that, and burned with shame. He handed her a wodge of tissues, smiled a bit, and said, “Clean. I brought them in case somebody cried.”
“Not... you?”
“I don’t cry in front of other people.”
“I was just thinking that,” she said, doing her best to mop up, aware of her swollen face, her streaming nose. “That I’ll never be...” Her voice wobbled, and the tears threatened again. “Maori. Good at expressing myself. I’m Pakeha all the way.”
“Oh, I dunno,” he said. “I thought you did all right just then. And it’s not that I never cry. I just do it alone. Our secret, eh.”
“Our secret,” she repeated, and something passed between them and tried to take her with it, strong as a rip that caught you in the sea and pulled you out, away from safety.
His face solidified again. That was the only way to describe it. His features would soften for a moment, then harden once more, as if you’d only imagined the softness. She didn’t even know anymore. She was hallucinating from lack of sleep, probably. She was empty, except for that spark of life when he’d pulled her into his arms, and she’d felt... held. Protected, for the first time in so much longer than a year.
Wanted.
Female.
He said, “How are you and Isaiah getting back to the house?”
“I should... I should stay. Say the goodbyes.” The house would be full of aunties and uncles and endless cousins, of more talking and laughter and tears. And she couldn’t. Shecouldn’t.
He said, “Grab Isaiah, and come on. I’ll drive you.”
He hadn’t taken them to his Auntie Rose’s, but to the blessedly anonymous white-and-glass elegance of The Sails in Nelson instead. He went in to register them, then walked them upstairs and through the door of the apartment, done up with the kind of austere simplicity she needed now. Black couches, white linens on the bed, and the sea beyond the green grass of the Domain, everything outside vibrant with life, because the rest of the world went on, no matter how your own world had shattered. Rhys set a plastic carrier bag on the kitchen bench. “Roast,” he said. “Meat and kumara and veg left over from the hangi, in case you get hungry again, Isaiah. You could watch some TV, eh. They have DVDs, too.” He crouched down by the TV cabinet and asked, “Toy Story? Or Shrek?”
“Shrek,” Isaiah said instantly.
Rhys smiled. “Good choice. That would’ve been mine, too.” He put the DVD into the player, found the right button on the remote, and got it queued up. After that, he paused the film, handed the remote to Isaiah, rested his hand on his nephew’s dark head, and said, “It’s ready when you are. Keep the sound down, though, so your mum can sleep if she needs to, OK?”
Isaiah said, “OK.” His face was closed down. He was six years old, and done in. He needed time to be quiet, too. At least, Zora hoped so, because she had to shut down. She had nothing left to give, not even to her son. It was a frightening thought.
She told Rhys, “I’ll have to ring up and tell them I’ve come to stay here for tonight. Not sure how to say it, though. I don’t even have a change of clothes, and I don’t care.”
“I’ve already told them. They’ll know that everybody handles things differently. Or if they don’t—” He grinned. “Bugger ’em. There’ll be a dressing gown in the closet in there. A tub with jets as well. You should use it.” He hesitated. “And I asked them to send up a bottle of wine. You could have a bath. Get a little pissed. Order up some chocolate cake for the two of you. Let it all go for a night. Time enough to pick it up again tomorrow. I’ll get your car here for you in the morning, and leave the keys in the office.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Though I do wonder how you know, about the dressing gown and the spa tub and all.” She was nearly rocking in her heels now, she was so tired.
“Stayed here when the All Blacks played a test once.” She thought he was going to put his arms around her again. Instead, he said, his voice nearly harsh, “And don’t thank me. He was my brother.”
She hadn’t seen him again for six months.
He couldn’t really see the house, not through the storm. He could see enough to know it was a move down—way down—the property ladder, though, and it was making him furious.
Get it under control.Not something he had to tell himself often. Other than when he saw Zora.
He got out of the car and ran to the front door. No choice. He was committed. The door opened straight into a kitchen. A bit of an... odd one. The backsplash was huge red tiles, the attached seating at the breakfast bar was red plastic, the floor was gray lino meant to look like tile, and the cabinets were some kind of glossy black metal.
It smelled fantastic, though, like an Indian restaurant. Whatever that smell was, he wanted it.
He got his shoes off and put them on the rubber tray, then unzipped his anorak and hung it on a hook beside the other two, and everything dripped. Zora stood in the middle of the tiny square of work space, smoothed her hair, and told Isaiah, “Let’s see your chest, darling.”
Isaiah put his arm across his skinny body and said, “I’m good.” He slid his eyes across to Rhys, though, and something in them tugged at Rhys hard.
