Page 119 of Catch a Kiwi
The old man was in a wheelchair at the kitchen table. A baby cried in a room beyond, and a woman’s voice spoke softly, soothingly. Hemi sat down beside the old man, who was lifting an egg-soaked toast soldier to his mouth with atrembling hand. When he saw me, though, he put it down. And smiled all the way to the filmy old eyes.
“Roman,” he said.
Something ached hard in my chest. Something I hadn’t known was there. I stood, breathed, and waited for it to let me go. When it didn’t happen, I sat down across from Hemi and said, “I came to say goodbye.”
“That’s good,” the old man said. He looked smaller today. Shriveled and insubstantial, as if he were barely here. As if the breeze could lift him up into the mist.
“I don’t much like surprises,” I said. “I like to plan. I’ve generally fought surprises all the way, trying to hold to my road. It’s been a struggle, acceptance.”
The old man didn’t say anything, just looked at me, and Hemi did the same thing. I’d started, though, so I went on. “I didn’t want this, either. I didn’t want to want … more. Told myself I wasn’t cut out for family life. But …” I took a breath and said it. “I’ve learned something, maybe. I’m not really part of your whanau, and I know it. I’m not really Maori, either, and I know that, too. You can’t be what you’ve never known. But I’m still glad I came. Maybe I can have … more. Maybe I can try.”
The old man watched me some more, and the seconds ticked away. Finally, though, he stirred and said, his voice raspy as sandpaper, “You are stronger than you know, my son. You are strong enough for this. Hemi—what Rawiri Waititi said on Waitangi Day. D’you remember it?”
“Yes,” Hemi said.
“Say it, then,” the old man said.
Hemi’s voice rolled out, quiet and rich and deep. “You may not know your maunga. You may not know your awa. Your awa and your maunga know you. You may not know your reo. But your reo knows you. You may not know yourmarae, but your marae knows you. You are good enough because our tipuna made it so.”
The chills ran down my legs. Down my arms. Along my scalp. Your mountain, he was saying. Your river. Your language. Your meeting place.
Our tipuna made it so.Our ancestors.
“Our tipuna,” Hemi said, “are your tipuna. Our marae is your marae. Our awa and our maunga are yours, too. Whether you know it or not, whether you accept it or not … they’re yours. And Koro is yours, too.”
The old man was looking at Hemi now. “You make me proud, my son,” he said. “You make me proud.”
The tears were at the backs of my eyes, the emotion blocking my throat. “Thank you,” I said, and knew it wasn’t enough.
“You are good enough,” the old man told me, “because our tipuna made it so.”
The ache in my throat, in my chest. The tears coming, relentless as the dawn. I felt them there, trembling on my lashes, and said, “I need to leave this morning. Almost this minute. I have a meeting.”
“I know,” Koro said. He reached for my shoulder, and I reached for his. I laid my forehead, my nose, gently against his. I breathed with him, and when I sat back, tears were rolling down his furrowed cheeks.
He told me, his voice wavering, tremulous, “When Ranginui and Papatuanuku, the Sky Father and the Earth Mother, were separated, that terrible act brought the light into the world. They looked into each other’s eyes and saw their beloved’s beauty reflected back, and the tears they shed gave birth to Rehua, the god of the highest love. Love and pain—they can be the same. They can be terrible. But if you don’t love because you are afraid of pain, you turn your back on everything that’s best in the world. Everything that matters.”
“Murimuri aroha,” I said.
“Murimuri aroha,” he answered. “My son.”
53
LUCKY ME
Summer
I’d done so many hard things in my life, but somehow, stepping out of Roman’s car at the airport on Monday morning, after a drive that was at once too long and over much too soon, felt like the worst. We’d barely spoken this morning, and even Delilah, after commenting that “It’s, like, a dead zone in this car,” had shut up.
Roman didn’t sit behind the wheel and wait after pulling into the curb. It would’ve felt better if he had. Instead, he popped the trunk, pulled both suitcases from it, set them on the sidewalk in front of the tiny airport building, and said, “Have a safe trip.” His face all the way closed down.
When the plane had landed here, I’d felt … hopeful. Excited.
Seen. And what may have been more important—allowed to see.
Now, the ashes of those feelings stirred and settled again, and I said, “Good luck with your meetings. All of them. Thank you for bringing us up here, too. Your family is special. I’m glad I had a chance to meet them.”
He said, “You were doing me a favor. Nothing to thank me for,” and turned away. I wanted to say, “Wait.” I wanted to say, “I’ll keep making those car payments,” just to keep him here another moment, but if I didn’t want to hurt him more, I couldn’t drag this out.
