by Amanda Dick
“It really is a beautiful spot,” she said, watching a small boat crawling past silently, so far away the engine noise was lost in the waves. “It feels like we’re alone in the universe, doesn’t it? So quiet, peaceful.”
It was almost as if she had read my mind.
“Sometimes, all you need is a little bit of peace and quiet and suddenly you feel like you can face the world again,” I said, speaking from experience. “I know a few places like this, where you can go to get away from everything for a while.”
She turned back to me. “Do you surf, out here?”
“Here? Sometimes, not often. It’s more for swimming.”
“How do you know when it’s a good surf beach?” she asked.
“Experience, I suppose. I don’t know. My dad was the one who taught us. We surf where he used to surf. He taught me pretty much everything I needed to know, including the best spots.”
“Ah yes, your Dad. What’s he like? Obviously a good surfer, I know that much.”
I took a sip of beer. It was still hard, talking about him in the past tense. Like any kid who loses a parent young, I had also lost my innocence. It gets stolen from you the moment you realise how fragile life is.
“He was great,” I said. “A lot of fun. A lot like Vinnie, actually. The older Vin gets, the more like Dad he is.”
Her eyes levelled on mine, and I saw within them that she knew what I was saying even if I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “How old were you?”
Far too young.
“Eleven. He died of a heart attack. It was really sudden. He wasn’t even sick, it just happened one day at work, completely out of the blue.”
There was crying, lots of crying that day, and the days that followed. I crawled under my bed and hid. I didn’t want to come out. I just wanted everyone to get out of our house. There were too many of them. Vinnie crawled under there with me and we just lay there, side by side, waiting, hiding.
“So, tell me more about yourself,” she said.
Relieved at the change of subject, I smiled at her, shrugging. “What else do you want to know? There’s not much else to tell, really.”
“Come on, I’m sure there is. So far, I know that you like to surf, your middle name is Gerald, you have a brother, you’re a landscape gardener –“
“Uh – I mow lawns, and weed gardens. That’s it. Bridget was exaggerating when she said that – she does that a lot.”
“She’s proud of you,” she smiled. “That’s really nice. You’re lucky. I like her, she’s very intuitive.”
“Intuitive. Yep, that’s pretty accurate. She’s kind of a hippy at heart.”
“Nothing wrong with that is there?”
“No, definitely not. She’s fiercely loyal, too. If you’re in trouble, you want her in your corner because she will fight for you till the bitter end. I’ve seen her do it – it’s like a scary ‘mama bear’ type of deal.”
“Were she and Emily close?”
I could see them together, the way they used to be. Having coffee, laughing, surfing. “Yeah, they were. Very close.”
“You must miss her,” she said.
It was a statement, not a question. As if she could see inside my heart and knew the truth. Yes, I miss her. I missed her. I have been missing her. I will always miss her.
I was trying to keep any mention of Em out of our conversation. It seemed like bad etiquette, and it made me uncomfortable. It felt like the right thing to do, to keep those memories at arm’s length. It was too confusing. But she had brought her up – I couldn’t ignore her questions. This ‘moving on’ thing was a bloody minefield.
“Yeah, I do,” I said.
There was no point lying about it. I had a feeling she’d see right through that.
“You can talk about her – I don’t mind,” she said gently. “Just because she’s not here doesn’t mean she ceases to exist. The way we keep our loved ones alive is through talking about them, acknowledging that they lived and that we loved them.”
I looked over at her, my throat tight and sore. She was right. She and Henry had a lot in common. But now didn’t feel like the right time to go into detail. If she knew what a mess I really was, she might not be so keen to encourage me.
“So, I believe it’s time for you to do some sharing of your own, Nancy Drew.”
“Me? What do you want to know?”
“Bridget said you’ve been travelling around the country. What’s that all about then?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what made you decide that’s what you wanted to do?”
She seemed embarrassed by the question. “I don’t know. It just kind of happened. I didn’t really plan it. I guess I’m trying to… find myself?”
I could see now why she and Bridget seemed to click. They had a lot in common, too. She looked uncomfortable with the line of questioning though, so I tried to lighten the mood.
“Why? Did you lose yourself?” I teased.
She took a hasty sip of her wine and I could tell I’d touched a raw nerve.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to put her at ease again. “Ignore me, I’m just jealous. I wish I could just up and leave like that.”
“Why can’t you?”
If only she knew. I’d wanted to, I’d planned on it – we both had, Em and I. But now it felt like a pipe dream. I couldn’t do it without her. Everything had changed. At first, I couldn’t leave. Now, I didn’t want to.
“I just can’t. I have responsibilities here. People are depending on me,” I said instead. “Hey, why don’t we play a little game?”
I leaned back, stretching my legs out in front of me, crossing my ankles.
“That sounds ominous.”
“Quid pro quo. One personal question each – short answers.”
“Okay,” she said slowly.
“Relax,” I said, slapping her leg lightly. “It’s supposed to be fun.”
She summoned up a smile, but all I could think about was the fact that I had just touched her leg.
“So, I’ll start then,” I said. “Favourite movie?”
She shuffled around as she thought about the answer. I waited patiently, but she was looking more and more anxious.
“If you’re trying to impress me with something really artsy – like some foreign film or something? – don’t bother. I’d be just as impressed if you said ‘The Godfather’ or any of Tarantino’s movies.”
“Um,” she mumbled, fidgeting again. “I’m trying to think. I don’t really have one. I don’t watch a lot of movies.”
“You don’t?”
She shrugged. “Not really. But tell me yours.”
This definitely wasn’t working out like I’d hoped it would.
“I suppose ‘The Godfather’ is mine. I’ve watched it more often than any other movie.”
She nodded, smiling tightly. I threw the ball back into her court.
“So now you go,” I said. “Ask away, anything at all.”
She thought about it for a moment. “Favourite colour?”
“Seriously?”
“Why? Is it pink?”
That made me laugh out loud. That, and the cheeky smile when she said it.
“Do I look like my favourite colour is pink?” I rallied. “On second thoughts, don’t answer that. It’s blue, smart-arse. Yours?”
“Green.”
“Like your eyes?” I said, without even thinking. Jesus, that was smooth.
“Do you think they’re green?” she asked shyly, her cheeks flushing. “I thought they were hazel. More brown than green.”
“I don’t know. They look green in this light.”
I leaned forward, peering into her eyes, slightly embarrassed at how forward I was being, but also grateful if it gave me this opportunity to study them up close. She didn’t back off. They definitely looked green now, but not just green. They were green, with flecks of golden yellow and
brown through them. They were stunning, actually. Chameleon eyes.
I wanted to kiss her.
The idea was so overwhelming, I nearly did, and that freaked me out. I lost my nerve, backing away to give us both room to breathe.
I glanced out over the water at the rapidly setting sun. “Do you feel like a walk along the beach before it gets dark?”
She smiled, obviously relieved. “Sounds perfect.”
We stood up, and I led the way to the path that led down to the beach. As we made our way down onto the sand, she fell in step beside me. I glanced over at her as the warm breeze lifted stray strands of her hair. The sun was almost gone, its last act of the day streaking the sky with slashes of purple and pink. We were close enough to touch, watching the show together, as if the sky was a canvas being painted with an invisible brush. It filled me with a sense of fulfilment, of warmth, that I hadn’t felt for a long time.
Her hand brushed up against mine and I finally mustered up the courage to reach out and take hold of it. She glanced up at me, smiling shyly. We settled into comfortable silence, walking slowly along the beach together, hand in hand. In direct contrast to how she made me feel earlier – out of control, impulsive – now, all I felt was strangely content. Her hand fit inside mine so perfectly, it was as if it was meant to be. I wondered if she felt the same way. She certainly wasn’t shying away from me. It was odd, the way she would let me get physically close to her, but mentally, she was avoiding my questions and keeping me at a safe distance. It was an intoxicating paradox.
Come closer, don’t ask me anything.
I felt like I needed to explain myself, to let her in and hopefully, to make her understand. Maybe she needed to know where I was coming from. Maybe she was keeping me at arm’s length until she was sure.
“Y’know, I haven’t done this since Emily disappeared,” I said. “For a long time, it felt like I was cheating on her somehow, like moving on was wrong. It felt wrong. I wasn’t ready – sometimes I didn’t think I’d ever be ready. But then I met you.”
We stopped walking and faced each other. In the dusky twilight, I tried to read her expression, to figure out if I was making any sense at all but she just stared up at me with those beautiful chameleon eyes.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t make a habit of this. This is… special. You’re special. It feels right, being here with you.”
I brushed a stray wisp of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear as I’d seen her do a handful of times tonight. She reached up to take my hand in hers, holding it, as if me touching her like that was making it difficult for her to think clearly.
“I don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of thing,” she said. “So this is probably gonna sound stupid, or crazy or whatever, but I felt something when we first met. I don’t know what it is, or how to describe it. I just… did.”
My heart nearly exploded with relief. It wasn’t just me. She felt it too. I wasn’t in this alone.
“It’s not stupid,” I said, squeezing her hand gently. “Or crazy. I felt it too.”
Her eyes locked onto mine and I found it impossible to look away.
“Is it… normal?” she asked.
Emily’s words came back to me. Normal is over-rated. You need to aim higher.
“Not for me.”
“Not for me, either.”
A shiver ran through me as I wrapped one arm around her, keeping hold of her other hand in mine. Having her this close to me sent tremors of anticipation rolling through me. I wanted to kiss her so badly my lips were tingling, but she held off, staring up at me.
“What?” I asked gently, running my thumb over the side of her hand, held up between us as though anchoring us to each other.
“Just wait a moment,” she murmured. “I want to remember this.”
I waited for precisely three beats of my racing heart, then I leaned in and kissed her. She closed her eyes as I brought my hand under her chin and tilted it up towards me. For the moment it took for our lips to meet, a thousand thoughts raced through my head.
Her lips were soft, so beautifully tender, and as soon as they touched mine, goose-bumps rose up all over my body. It felt as if my whole being was disappearing, disintegrating into a gathering of cells, about to float off into the atmosphere. The kiss seemed to last forever, and I was vaguely aware that I had let go of her hand and curled both my arms around her body, pulling her closer still.
It wasn’t enough. I simultaneously wanted her to be part of me, and yet I felt like she already was. I was stricken with an extreme sense of vertigo, as if I were falling and she was holding me up.
The prospect scared the shit out of me.
I PULLED UP OUTSIDE the police station with Henry, the familiar heaviness in my chest settling in as if it had never left. Much like the birthday tradition I put myself through for Bridget’s sake, I put myself through Tuesday’s at the police station for Henry. I’d been bringing him here every Tuesday since Emily disappeared. It was a ritual now, but one I still dreaded. I think it was the inevitability of it that I hated.
We made our way inside the small station building. It was busy, if the activity beyond the reception area was anything to go by. Phones rang intermittently at the desks beyond the glass, hollow and distant. Police officers crossed the room, files in hand.
Henry stood up, making his way over to the noticeboard on the opposite side of the small waiting room. Home-made fliers for lost dogs, community service group details and fuzzy security camera photos of shoplifters littered the board. Sitting among them all, half-buried behind layers of notices, was the flyer with Emily’s photograph on it. I watched him carefully unpin it from the back and move it to the front, before coming back over to sit down beside me again. A silent show of dogged persistence.
I stared at the photo. I’d seen it so often now, it hardly looked like her, certainly not the Emily I remembered. My brain had disconnected the photo from the person. Now, it was a photo of a missing girl, one who had been the subject of a country-wide search. One of the over 350 missing persons in New Zealand who had not yet been found. It was an elite club, and a dubious honour.
Senior Sergeant John Latimer was no doubt expecting us. We didn’t have to wait long before being ushered through the station and into his office. I had a lot of respect for Latimer. He was a big man, in both stature and personality. In his fifties, with a handlebar moustache and a grip that could probably bring a man to his knees. I didn’t doubt that he had been a firm but fair cop when he was on the street. I’d seen the way the younger officers behaved around him, with quiet reverence, respect and admiration.
Sergeant Latimer shook both our hands, and as usual, I fought not to pull my hand out of his too soon. The bones felt as if they were moments away from being pulverised into powder.
“Afternoon, gents. Warm one today, isn’t it?” he said genially, gesturing to the chairs opposite his desk.
“Hotter than Hades,” Henry said, sitting in one of the chairs as I settled into the other. I was happy to blend into the background, surreptitiously shaking my hand out. This was Henry’s thing, not mine.
“How are you keeping, Henry?” Latimer asked, rounding his desk and making himself comfortable in his chair.
“Good, thanks. You?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“I saw that write-up in the local rag about the assault on one of your officers last week. How’s he doing?”
“He’s back at work. Still sore, but he’ll be right as rain soon enough. Little bastard’s in court next week. I’ve given the prosecutor my two cents worth. If he’s got any brains on him – which is a stretch, I know – he’ll plead guilty and save us all a lot of time.”
Henry nodded sagely. A few beats passed, and Latimer leant forward on his desk, his heavy eyebrows drawn together.
“Nothing new to add this week. The usual feelers are still out and all the websites still have Emily’s information listed,” he said. “
I’m sorry – I wish I had better news for you. I hope one of these days, I will.”
He looked me in the eye across the desk. That was one of the things I liked about Latimer. He always looked me in the eye, same as he did with Henry. I remember Dad telling me that anyone willing to look you in the eye was honest, with nothing to hide. Considering they say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, it made sense to me then, and it still did.
Every Tuesday, my hopes went up and every week, they were shot down again. Same old, same old. Five years of Tuesdays and still no answers. If it wasn’t for Henry, I wouldn’t bother coming, but I didn’t feel like I really had a choice in the matter.
“Thanks for the update,” Henry said. “I appreciate you taking the time.”
Latimer stood up, coming around the desk again to see us out. “You’re welcome. We haven’t forgotten, don’t ever think we have. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about her.”
I wondered if that was true. There was nothing to indicate it wasn’t. I supposed Latimer was human, just like the rest of us. Only, for him, Em was an open case file. An unsolved riddle. A statistic. For those of us that knew her and loved her, she was a lot more than that.
I led the way out of the office and through reception, back to my truck.
“If you can drop me off at the RSA, I’ll get a lift home,” Henry said, buckling his seatbelt.
Another Tuesday ritual – a game of pool at the RSA with his mates. Probably a good thing. It wasn’t good to end the day on a negative note.
“No worries.”
As I reversed out onto the main road and drove up towards the RSA, I could feel myself backsliding into the past. Into despair and helplessness. Just like Henry and his weekly game of pool, I needed a distraction. I needed to feel like I was alive again, not swimming upstream against this torrent of misery that threatened to drown me.
