After the Fall (29 page)

‘Thank you.’ Bianka embraced me. ‘Your daughter is so beautiful.’

Surprised, I looked into the pale face. ‘You’re not staying?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘No.’

‘But—no, Bianka, you must stay. I thought you were all bringing duvets?’

‘Martha . . .’ She stood looking at me, her mouth turning up and down at the same time as though she was about to howl.

I laid a hand on her arm. ‘What’s the matter? Has something happened?’

‘I have to get home. Mum’s not well.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ I walked her around the house. ‘Please tell your mum I’m thinking about her. Come and see us again soon.’

She thanked me again and got into a car, taking three other girls with her. Haunted by a sense of deep unease, I watched them drive away. I was still standing under the gloomy canopy of the walnut tree when I felt Kit’s arm around my waist.

‘Never saw a girl so sad,’ he said quietly.

‘Her mother’s dying.’ There was a wobble in my throat; for Bianka’s sake, and because I was tired and a little drunk. And maybe because I didn’t quite know who I was, just at that moment. ‘All those years,’ I said. ‘All those friends, the special places we used to go, the things that made us happy . . . they’re just history, now, aren’t they?’

‘They’re
our
history, though.’ Kit smoothed my hair.

‘And we’re just history to them, too. We’ve deleted ourselves. We’ve been cut from there and pasted here.’

‘C’mon,’ he said, taking my hand. ‘Let’s dance.’

The last of Sacha’s mates had gone by lunchtime the next day. She slumped into the kitchen, complaining of nausea and denying that she’d had a drop of alcohol.

‘You’re in a state,’ I nagged, putting a hand to her forehead. I found a vitamin C tablet and lobbed it into a glass of water. ‘And you’re ruining your complexion with this silly dieting. What time did you turn in last night?’

She was roaming up and down the room, staring into the fridge, banging drawers. She opened one cupboard three times. ‘About two.’

‘Five, more like. You’d better go back to bed.’

‘I might do that.’ She rubbed her face. ‘Aching all over. I’ve got another filthy cold coming on. It’s this freakin’ country, there’s all these new viruses I’ve got no immunity to.’

‘I hope you didn’t give it to Bianka. They don’t need it in their household.’

‘Bianka.’ Sacha hissed a filthy word under her breath—just audibly enough for me to be shocked—then scratched herself on the upper arm. ‘Dog’s got fleas.’

‘I was surprised she left so early last night.’

‘Yeah. Well. Whatever.’ She walked into the larder, lifted down a packet of dried noodles and tore them open. Half the contents fell out.

There was a brief ceasefire, sulky on both sides.

‘I still think those two girls are incredibly boring.’ I knew I was needling, but I couldn’t help it. ‘Those skinny ones, Taylah and . . .’

‘Teresa.’

‘That’s the ones. I really don’t know what you see in them.’

‘Better boring than narrow-minded and judgemental.’ Sacha was picking up every packet in the pantry, looking at the labels.

‘Don’t be cheeky. What are you after? Dustpan and brush, I hope. Noodles all over the floor.’

She found a bag of mini chocolate bars and unwrapped one, jamming it into her mouth. ‘Anita’s not responding to radiotherapy,’ she mumbled. ‘I don’t think she’s going to make it. D’you think she’s going to make it? The dad’s in denial. Can you believe that?’

‘Yes, I can. Are you—’

‘He won’t let anyone say the word cancer, wants to pretend it isn’t happening.’ Sacha poured boiling water over her noodles, talking loudly. ‘I think narrow-minded people are the real villains, trying to repress free speech and free thinkers . . . I mean, why should we live by the rules of people who know and understand nothing about us? It’s my age group who understand the technology, your generation haven’t a clue, can’t keep up with all the changes. You’re just totally out of date. You’re—’

‘I am
not
out of date.’

‘—dinosaurs, and you know what happened to them? We actually rule the world because we have the knowledge. Knowledge is power!’

‘You’re spouting rubbish. Go and have a shower and get changed.’

She looked sidelong at me. It was quite sinister. ‘Why?’

‘And bring down your washing. There are piles of it in your room.’

‘How do you know what’s in my room? Christ, will you back off? I’m not a frigging two-year-old!’

‘Well, you’re behaving like one!’ I sounded like one of the hens. No, it was worse than that: both in words and tone, I was my own mother. I’d never thought that day would come.

‘You can’t handle it, can you?’ snarled Sacha. ‘Everyone has to be totally reliant on you, or you fall apart. You’ve got to be everyone’s little saviour.’

‘Look—’

Her anger filled the room. ‘You’re pretty pleased with yourself. You think you’re a legend as a human being. You always have to be the life and soul of the party. It was
my
birthday but
you
had to be the centre of attention, dancing on the verandah. I could hear your fake laugh from the smoko hut.’ She tossed her head, imitating brassy, pretentious laughter. ‘Other women fancy your husband—that’s a real plus for you! You’ve got something they want.’

‘Why d’you have to get all hormonal and hellish now, Sacha? You used to be a dream teen.’

She lifted the corner of her lip. ‘Trophy husband, complete with sexy Irish accent. What a devilish charmer! Nobody would believe Kit had a little
problem
, would they?’

‘He hasn’t. Not any more.’

‘Well, he was a honey pot last night. You’d better watch out, Mum. Mind you, perhaps you’ve got your own distractions. I saw you rushing across the paddock to meet Tama Pardoe.’

‘Don’t you dare!’

Behind me, the door to the hall creaked. The boys tiptoed in. ‘What’s the matter?’ Charlie almost mouthed the words. ‘Why are people shouting?’

To my amazement, Sacha threw herself to the floor and pulled her brothers onto her lap. Gone like a puff of smoke was the horrible hormone monster.

‘I love you guys,’ she whispered, and held them to her chest.

Then she went to bed and slept and slept, like a princess in a tower.

Twenty-four

I’m woken by a door shutting. Kura Pohatu is back, and there’s a new purpose in her gait. It’s as though she’s rolled up her sleeves.

Day and night have merged; sleep and waking, nightmare and reality are one and the same. I am in a strange room, with a television and a pile of magazines. I struggle to remember how I got here.

Kura folds herself into the same chair as before. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘One of the paediatricians wanted a word with me.’

‘That’s all right.’ I try to shake the fog from my head. ‘I think I should be getting back to Finn now, though.’

She watches me shrewdly for a final moment. She’s taking aim. Then she fires. ‘Has Finn ever broken a bone?’

‘Um . . . yes. A toe.’

‘Nothing more than a toe?’

‘No. Why?’

‘The team took another look at his X-rays this morning.’

‘What for?’

‘Until now they’ve been working to save his life. They concentrated on vital organs. Now he’s stabilised they’ve been able to look for signs of . . . Well, Martha, what if I just tell you that Finn has a fracture to his right wrist.’

‘I know he has. We all know that. He’s got a bloody great plaster cast on it.’

She shakes her head impatiently. ‘I haven’t made myself clear. This break is older, though close to the site of the new injury. The orthopaedic surgeon thinks it was a greenstick fracture and estimates it occurred several months ago, maybe six months or more.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘There is calcification where it’s healed, but we have no record of Finn’s being presented to a doctor or emergency department. Why is that?’

I struggle to understand. Perhaps I’m still dreaming. ‘Six months?’

‘Or possibly earlier. Certainly since you arrived in New Zealand. That was a year ago, wasn’t it? All right. Well, since then.’

‘No, no. Finn has never broken his arm.’

‘I’m afraid he has.’

I stare at her as the implications sink in. ‘I honestly and truly know nothing about this.’

‘I can get someone to come and show you the X-ray if you like. They know what they’re talking about.’ The regal grandmother seems a little menacing, suddenly. I want to run away. ‘Martha, I can’t help if you won’t be open with me. I’m not suggesting you did anything yourself.’

I feel a guilty blush spreading up my throat. They think we’ve been hurting Finn for months. They think we broke his arm. Well, of course they do. He has a fracture, and I didn’t even know. How could I not know? Bad mother. Bad mother.

‘There has to be a mistake,’ I insist desperately.

‘I don’t think there’s a mistake.’

Kura lets the silence lengthen. She’s not afraid of silence. That’s what gives her power. The minutes tick by, and she waits like a cat at a mouse hole.

‘Six months.’ I try to remember every fall, every fight since we arrived here. In the life of a small boy there are many falls, and many fights. My memory is suddenly opaque, a sludge of panic.

Then it comes to me. Something so small, so silly. A bicycle wheel, stuck in a rut under a walnut tree. ‘Hang on . . . Oh my God. I think I know. Maybe.’

Kura pulls out a notebook as I tell the story of Finn’s tumble on New Year’s Day. She scribbles as she listens. I don’t think she believes a word. I don’t blame her. ‘So you never got him to a doctor?’ she asks dubiously.

‘Sorry . . . I know it sounds pretty slack, but honestly he seemed fine. In a few days he was back to normal.’

‘Did he need a lot of analgesic? He must have been in pain.’

‘Er . . .’ I think back. ‘I remember giving him Pamol a few times.’

She looks unconvinced.

‘I can’t believe we’re the first parents to miss a fracture,’ I argue helplessly. ‘In fact I’ve heard of GPs making the same mistake.’

She closes her notebook. ‘I’ll discuss this with the team. It sets alarm bells ringing when an injured child isn’t presented to a doctor.’

‘Oh, marvellous. So in your book we’re either abusive or we’re negligent.’

‘The two aren’t mutually exclusive.’

‘Look,’ I say, ‘I feel really awful about not spotting this fracture, but Finn’s an adventurous five-year-old. If we carted him off to hospital every time he fell off his bike or out of a tree, we’d spend our lives in a queue!’

She just looks at me. I fear her; she is too perceptive.

‘I’d like to go back to him now,’ I say, standing up. I’m afraid I’m going to cry.

Kura doesn’t move. ‘Martha. I really am not the enemy, you know. Why won’t you tell me who is?’

The hospital gift shop is closing for the evening, which doesn’t matter much as I have no need of a helium balloon in the shape of a heart. There are armchairs nearby. Hiding in one, I call home.

Ira answers. No, Kit hasn’t been in touch. Everything there is fine.

Beyond the empty café I find a door marked
Chapel.
The lights are on but the room’s empty. There is a small altar in front of a stained-glass window, and a book in which people have scribbled messages or prayers. I suppose it was cathartic for them. A note promises that the chaplain will pray for those in the book.

I leaf through it. Each line tells its own tale. Everyone in the world has their story.

Please walk with Cynthia as she makes her lonely journey.

Dear Lord, comfort Ruth and family at their sad loss.

Thank you!!! Bryan going home today. You answered our prayers!

Don’t take my little boy away from me.

Actually, I wrote that last one. Sorry. Hard not to be banal when life has fallen apart.

Twenty-five

April. A blue-sky morning with a distinct nip in the air. As Pamela promised, autumn had brought yet another glorious palette of colours to our world.

The Easter holidays had come and gone. Kit was making school lunches while harrying the boys to get dressed. Sacha was still in her nightshirt. It had coffee spilled down the front, and she was riffling through her schoolbag. She walked to the laundry and looked in, then back to her bag. She seemed distracted.

‘Lost something?’ asked Kit.

‘Just need a shirt.’ She picked her barefoot way out to the washing line.

‘Peaky,’ remarked Kit, watching her tug a shirt from the line.

‘She’s run-down. You don’t think it might be glandular fever?’ I fretted. ‘Or some kind of post-viral thing?’

‘No, I don’t. I think it’s too much hard work, too many late nights and maybe too much dieting.’