It was dark in the garden. The streetlights were not working.
Jon tutted to himself and looked up, looking right through the dark clouds as if they weren’t there, to find the moon. It was a thin crescent. He brightened it into a full moon with a twist of his mind, and stopped for a moment to admire the clusters of shooting stars that exploded like fireworks in the sky whenever he did that.
Now able to see, he walked into the garden. Somewhere here was a squirrel who needed his help.
March 17th
I talked to Regina today.
First things first.
Lauren took me to the meeting with the publishing company. Dad said he would have come but he had an appointment with a car dealer.
The meeting was in a really high building in the centre of the city.
Anna-Grace said she really liked my poem and wanted to read some of my stories. Lauren had made copies of them for me to take, but I’d made her promise not to read them. She had also copied the start of my story about a wizard boy.
We had to sit in the office while Anna-Grace read through my stuff.
She seemed very surprised. She said she really likes my writing and she wants me to write a story for them. It can be about anything I like, except about a boy wizard. Or vampires.
I was a bit sad about that, because I had already written a couple of pages (and rewritten it lots of times) and I thought it was really good. (And I don’t know why she doesn’t like vampires.)
She also said that I should try to find my own voice.
I once lost my voice when I had a bad cold, but I don’t think that was what she meant.
She said I should develop my own style and not always copy the style of other authors.
I think this is good advice. But what if I don’t have my own voice? My own style?
It’s a bit scary. I will have to think carefully about this.
Afterwards, Lauren asked to see where I had lived when I was living in the city.
So we drove to the Auckland Domain and I showed her the low bushes that were my first home. Then we drove up to the motorway cave and I showed her that. She was quite disgusted.
Then we drove to the old building. When we got there, Reggie, Junior and Mohawk were sitting outside.
Junior and Mohawk came bounding over when I got out of the car and both gave me the shoulder bump half hug thing. They seemed very excited to see me.
Reggie stood back as if she was a bit afraid of me.
After a little while, Junior and Mohawk decided that they had to go somewhere. They didn’t say where. And Lauren suddenly had some important texting to do in her car.
So that left just me and Reggie.
The conversation was very difficult at first, and I don’t want to write it all down, but I am going to write down what I learned.
Regina didn’t keep the money. The ten thousand dollars. I thought she would, but I was wrong. She gave it to the FASK organisation (Friends of Auckland Street Kids). They offer free meals, safe boarding houses and counsellors to help street kids get back to the real world.
She said she never wanted the money. And she wouldn’t give it to her street kid friends. With that much money they’d just stuff it up their noses or in their arms and end up dead.
Regina is back in the world. She is living with her grandparents and is back in school. She doesn’t call herself Reggie anymore because that was her street name. She had just come into town to visit Junior and Mohawk. It was really lucky that I caught her there.
I am happy for her. I know she tried to do the right thing for me.
When we left I asked her if I could see her again, and she cried a bit and gave me the phone number of her grandparents’ house.
Word of the Day:
REGINA
It’s not really a word, it’s a name. But I want it to be my word today. Regina. Regina. Regina.
Thought for the day:
Perhaps I do love her.
Moma’s Code #19
Don’t judge other people.
You don’t have that right. And they don’t have the right to judge you.
PS: Little Allan got really sick and had to go to hospital. He is now in the care of the CYF people (Child, Youth and Family – they are a government agency).
March 18th
My dad bought a new car today. It comes from Germany like Lauren’s car, but is made by a different company, called Porsche.
It is a big car called an S.U.V. and it has four-wheel driving, whatever that means. Its name is Cayenne. I think it was very expensive.
I am writing about the car because some really bad stuff happened today and I know I have to write about it, but it is really hard.
When my dad came home with the car, Lauren seemed quite surprised. “You should have bought something cheaper,” she said. “We can’t really afford it.”
“It’s fine,” my dad said, the way he says when he really doesn’t want to discuss something.
“No, actually it’s not fine,” Lauren said, quite firmly. “You could have bought a cheaper brand or model, or if you really had to have a Cayenne, you could have got a second-hand one.”
“Lauren,” my dad said, “it’s not a problem.” You can always tell he is angry when he uses your name at the start of a sentence.
“Where is the money coming from?” Lauren asked.
“It’s really low repayments, with a balloon payment in three years,” my dad said.
I thought that sounded reasonable, and a clever way to buy a car, although I had no idea what a balloon payment was.
Lauren didn’t agree. “And where’s the balloon payment coming from?” she asked. “Are you going to write another book?”
That made my dad really angry. He called her a bitch, then he said, “I have irons in the fire, you know that. Everything is simmering away, but something will come to the boil soon.”
“When?” Lauren asked. “You said that last year, and the year before. When is one of your little pet projects going to make some money? Or are they all going to lose money like your online razorblade shop?”
He slapped her.
I have never seen a man hit a woman before.
No one should ever hurt another person, I know that, but it seems especially bad when it is a man, – a big man like my dad – and a delicate woman like Lauren.
She seemed angry, but not shocked by what he had done.
“Hey!” I said. “Don’t hit her.”
He seemed to have forgotten that I was there. “You stay out of this,” he said. “Go to your room.”
“Why?” I asked. “So you can hit her again without me watching.”
“Egan, go to your room,” my dad said quietly.
“Go to your room, now,” Lauren said. Her eyes were really sad, like she knew something bad was going to happen and didn’t want me to see it.
“No!” I shouted. “Leave her alone.”
I got up from the sofa where I was watching television and walked into the kitchen, standing in front of Lauren so he couldn’t hit her again.
“You little shit,” he said and he pulled his arm back like he was going to punch me and just then the doorbell rang.
We all sort of froze like that. Me standing in front of Lauren, Dad about to punch me.
Then Lauren said, “Go and see who is at the door, Egan.”
“Don’t,” my dad said, but he did nothing to stop me when I ignored him and did what Lauren said.
It was the two detectives at the door.
My dad was all smiles and friendly face when they walked inside and Lauren busied herself in the kitchen. When she turned around to say hi, she turned so they could see only one side of her face. The side that hadn’t been slapped.
The detectives asked me and my dad to sit down at the ta
ble. I thought I must be in big trouble. But I wasn’t.
Dutch said, “Your friend Jeffery Hunter has been helping us with our investigation down in the Coromandel.”
I nodded. “I know.”
Doug said, “He is a very resourceful individual.”
Dutch said, “Which is not to diminish the role that our own people played in this investigation.”
I really didn’t understand what they were on about.
Dutch said, “Egan, we have some bad news for you.”
Doug said, “Very bad news.”
I realised that I was holding my breath, but I couldn’t let it go.
Dutch said, “Using information uncovered by Mr Hunter, we were able to track down a number of individuals – young men – who were racing cars along that road on the night in question.”
Doug said, “Forensic analysis of one of their cars showed that it had been in a collision with a person, and we matched blood traces to that of your mother.”
I didn’t want to hear what they were going to say next.
Dutch said, “Under questioning, the young men admitted hitting your mother.”
Doug said, “I’m very sorry to let you know that she is deceased, Egan.”
I asked, “What is deceased.”
Doug explained, “She’s dead, Egan.”
I was crying by then and I missed some of the stuff they said, but here is what I do remember.
The boys were racing cars along the road and one of them slid off the side of the road and hit Moma. She was thrown into a tree and probably died instantly.
They left her body on the ground for a long time while they argued about what to do. That was the reason for the big bloodstain.
Eventually they picked up my Moma and put her in the boot of their car like a dead animal. They drove her to a different part of the forest where they dug a big hole and put her in it.
Then they went home and washed the car and pretended that it never happened.
Some STUPID BOYS racing STUPID CARS to show how COOL they were, KILLED MY MOMA!
All the time I have been writing this diary to record my feelings and sort out my thoughts and to write down my fears so they won’t come true.
But this was my greatest fear, and I wrote it down lots of times, but it still came true.
I can’t stand it. I just can’t stand it.
March 20th
I didn’t write anything yesterday. I couldn’t. I just felt numb.
Today, Lauren and my dad had a big fight. It was over something really stupid.
The police are going to release Moma’s body the day after tomorrow after they complete their autopsy. So my dad has planned a funeral service for March 23rd.
That’s what they had the fight about.
My dad booked it at a small chapel at the Schnapper Rock cemetery, in Albany.
“That won’t be big enough,” Lauren said.
“Of course it will,” my dad said.
“Not with all the attention that Egan’s getting at the moment,” Lauren said.
“Are you kidding?” my dad asked. “The funeral is not for Egan, it’s for a drug-addled, hippie weirdo woman who held her own child prisoner for fifteen years. There may be a few reporters, and that senile old man may turn up, but we’ll be lucky if we fill the front row.”
“You’re wrong,” Lauren said. “The place will be packed. I think you need to hold the service in a church, or even in the Auckland Cathedral.”
“I’m wrong, am I?” my dad asked quietly. I don’t like it when his voice goes quiet like that. It’s kind of funny too, because when I imagined him being angry in my story, that is pretty much how I imagined it.
“I don’t mean you’re wrong,” Lauren said quickly. “I just mean that you may be underestimating Egan’s popularity. And his mother is part of his story. That’s what they are all buying into.”
“So that makes me the bad guy?” my dad asked, his voice even quieter.
“Of course not!” Lauren said. “His mother had mental issues. People aren’t going to judge her for that. They’re going to feel sorry for her. People who never even knew her are going to show up to pay their respects, and as a show of support for Egan.”
“I think you’re the one with mental issues,” my dad said. “The chapel seats a hundred and fifty. You’re deluded if you think we’re going to even halfway fill that.”
“Do Egan a favour, do me a favour and change it to somewhere bigger,” Lauren said.
“Sure, my crazy ex-wife gets her funeral in the Auckland Cathedral,” my dad said. “Just like Lady Diana, all la-di-dah. And there’s the three of us and a senile old man sitting in the front row, and a bunch of news photographers waiting for us outside the door.”
I don’t know what happened after that because I went up to my room and shut the door. I was unhappy enough about the funeral without listening to them fight about it.
I could hear a lot of shouting though.
Thought for the day: (none)
I have no thought for the day. I am trying not to think about anything.
March 21st
Today Lauren took me shopping for a suit to wear to the funeral. My dad said this was a waste of money and I could just wear dark colours.
Lauren said no, this was my mother’s funeral, and it was important to dress properly. She was really determined about it, almost as if she was daring him to argue with her.
I thought he was going to, but then he just said, “Whatever,” and waved his hand in the air like it was no big deal.
So we went to a big department store which had a lot of suits in all styles and sizes.
My suit is black and I have a black tie. I was going to tell Lauren about my ideas for what you could do with the tie, but I was too sad. It didn’t seem important.
The trousers were too long so we took them to another shop where an old Chinese lady made them shorter for me.
We also bought shoes, because you have to wear shoes when you wear a suit, even though I hate wearing shoes. They are black and tight and hurt my feet. My feet feel like they are in prison, but I have to wear them anyway.
I feel like I am in a bit of a daze all the time at the moment.
Nothing is working out the way it was supposed to.
Thought for the day:
I think my suit makes me look like a detective.
March 22nd
I have to write a speech for Moma’s funeral.
My dad said I didn’t have to give a speech if I didn’t want to, but I am the only blood relative of Moma’s left, so who is going to say something if I don’t. My father?!!!
It is really hard to write it.
Lauren said I should just write whatever is in my heart. She also said that I should tell some funny stories about living in the bush with Moma. People like to hear funny stories at funerals.
That made me think of the stories Moma told me about Acacia at her funeral.
My dad still says that nobody will turn up but I don’t care. I am going to give my speech even if it is just Lauren, my dad and the preacher man there.
I know she can never replace Moma, but I think I love Lauren in a son/mother kind of way. With Moma gone she has been the best thing in my life here in the world. Except maybe for Regina, but that’s different.
I remember once asking Lauren if she was going to be my new mum.
In a way she is.
March 23rd
Moma’s funeral was today.
It was a really difficult day for me. As a writer, I want to try and describe it, but as a person, I want to try and forget it. Parts of it, at least.
I think it is a really difficult thing for anyone to attend the funeral of the person who brought them into the world. The person who raised them.
Maybe the
only harder thing would be attending the funeral of your own child. I don’t know about that.
My father was wrong. That’s the first thing I want to say. About the funeral I mean.
We went in my father’s new car, the German one that has four-wheel drive.
When we got to Schnapper Rock Road, it was packed with cars, even though we were early.
I thought there must be some other event on, like a big sports game somewhere. We had to wait in the traffic queue so long that I thought we would end up being late.
When we got to the cemetery, I saw that I was wrong. There was no sports game on. All the cars were parked in the cemetery parking lot, or on the road that ran down past all the gravestones. Fortunately, the funeral director had marked a special car park just for us, so we were able to park very close to the chapel.
I couldn’t believe it when we walked inside. The chapel was full. Every seat was taken and there were people standing around the edges.
Mr Kavanagh was at the funeral. He was sitting in the front row, which was reserved for family. I guess he was her only family. We walked down and I sat next to him.
He smiled sadly at me. I saw this face a lot today. I call it the funeral face. People would smile, but not too much that would make them look happy. It’s just like a raising of the edges of the mouth. I started doing it to, when people did it to me.
The funeral was supposed to start at ten, but at ten to ten the funeral director, Mr Meacham, came and asked if he could delay the start for a few minutes as people were still arriving. He said they were rigging up speakers outside so those who couldn’t fit inside could still hear the service.
Lauren and my father looked at each other but didn’t say anything.
At twenty past ten Mr Meacham came back and asked if he could delay the start just a little longer.
This happened again at ten forty-five.
Lauren and my father stared in opposite directions.
We eventually started the service an hour late, at eleven o’clock.
The funeral director said a few things first, mainly organisational stuff I think. It was a bit of a blur. Then the chaplain came in to lead the service. He said lots of stuff about God that I don’t know if Moma would have appreciated. She didn’t believe much in God.
Shooting Stars Page 18
