by Murray, Lee
The thing that’s weird is the word miss goes further than the simple sadness of loss. Missing someone also includes the shock of realising that loss. This is hard to explain. The best example I can come up with is something I remember from social studies years ago. We were reading the testimonies of people who lost family members in the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Centre, and this one woman wrote that the worst thing wasn’t learning that her husband was dead, but realising that he was going to stay dead. That’s the gut-wrenching bit.
I studied some more and found the verb missing is both transitive and intransitive. I didn’t have a clue what that meant, so I looked it up and discovered these verbs operate with and without a direct object. So, in the transitive sense, I miss my mother. I fail to reach, or make contact with her, my object. However, in its intransitive form, there is no object. She’s simply missing.
And the last definition, transitive again, carries just a hint of irony. Here, the explanation of missing is not seeing, or hearing or understanding something. Well, that’s certainly true because I just don’t get any of it.
Why is this happening to us?
Chapter 16
Corey steps back and lets him in. Behind Corey, sliding doors throw a rhomboid patch of sun onto the lounge carpet. Inside one sunny oblique angle, Corey’s mum is reading on the sofa, her legs curled under her. Accountancy. Adam can make out a yellow Post-it note stapled to the magazine cover. He tugs his jacket off and hands it to Corey, who promptly throws it over a kitchen stool.
‘Adam!’
Like a fern, Mrs Shaw uncurls herself, her smile wide. As she crosses the lounge, Adam takes a minute to consider his mate’s mum. Ever since he’s misplaced his, Adam’s taken more than a passing interest in other people’s mothers. Not in a pervy, Stacy’s Mom kind of way. Just noticing them, whereas before he’d never really bothered.
Mrs Shaw is Chinese, and is slender and attractive. She has the same glossy hair as her son and the same gold-rimmed glasses. Mostly, when Adam’s seen her, she’s been wearing a suit with matching pointy heels—hardly surprising since she’s an accountant—but today she’s dressed in her weekend gear: skinny jeans, a yellow high-necked jumper, and with her feet bare. In a breeze of expensive perfume, she pulls Adam into a bear hug. A tiny bear. She has to stand on tippy toes to do it. Over her head, Adam sees Corey raise his eyebrows. She’s never done that before.
‘It’s been too long, sweetheart. We’ve missed you,’ she says, still clasping Adam’s upper arms as she pulls back. Corey’s dad, Paul, is hovering at the door of his office. He puts his hand out and, gives Adam a vigorous handshake.
‘Adam. Good to see you, fella. Everything good?’ Pulling back his hand, Corey’s dad slips it into his jeans pocket. With the other, he rubs the back of his neck. Nervous. Adam notices Corey’s parents don’t mention Mum. They’re not the only ones. Lots of people, not knowing what to say, have skirted around the subject. It’s as if Mum’s absence has become an entity in itself, a presence, like an amorphous grey blob that grows and grows and threatens to engulf everything. She’s not even here, yet this thing that replaces her demands to be acknowledged. This thing that everyone strives diligently to ignore.
‘Yup. Things’re pretty good,’ Adam says. ‘Considering.’
Corey’s dad winces. Adam recognises the fleeting plea in his eyes. Please, don’t mention your mother. It’s ironic, really. Corey’s dad is a real-life Bob-the-Builder, the man of the moment if your timing belt breaks or your retaining wall needs shoring up before the next deluge. Those sorts of setbacks he’ll haul on his gumboots, roll up his sleeves and pitch in. Adam knows Paul was one of the first volunteer searchers out looking for Mum. But Adam’s current situation is beyond Paul’s ability to fix. In this case, a good adhesive and a couple of wall-plugs won’t suffice.
‘C’mon, Adam,’ Corey urges. ‘We should go up. Kieran’s already here.’ Corey senses the need to make good their escape before Adam flips out.
Upstairs, Corey’s room is much like Adam’s is: school bag biffed in a corner, clothes on the floor, an empty Tim Tam packet on his desk. The layout is a bit odd, though. Because his mum is Chinese, Corey’s furniture has been arranged according to complicated feng shui principles. Corey tried to explain it to Adam once. Apparently, the way most people lay out their bedrooms upsets the flow of positive energy. Causes them to have bad luck. Corey said feng shui helps overcome that negative stuff and creates a harmonious peaceful atmosphere. Adam had said surely it was a bunch of old wives’ tales, but Corey wasn’t convinced. Said there was some scientific evidence that those ‘old wives’ tales’ conformed to certain geomagnetic principles. It’s to do with polarity or something. Anyway, instead of his bed being pushed up against the wall like Adam’s, Corey’s bed is smack in the middle of the room. It’s got a view of the door, but it’s not in line with the door. Side tables on either side are supposed to balance the energy. With feng shui, electrical appliances are a big no-no, which creates a bit of a problem because Corey has an electric piano. Set against the wall between Corey’s piles of musical scores, the piano looks like a keyboard—it has earphones and funky built-in beats—but the keys are weighted. To get round the “no electrical appliances” rule, the piano runs on batteries that Corey recharges periodically. Same with his alarm clock. When Adam had asked about Corey’s computer, Corey just shrugged, saying it’s impossible to get everything perfect. He reckons his lucky red wall should counter any minor inauspicious placements.
Sprawled on Corey’s bed, Kieran is flicking idly through the pages of a glossy magazine.
‘Hey!’ Colouring violently, Corey snatches at the journal. He stashes it in the bottom drawer of his commode under a pile of sweatshirts. ‘You guys!’ But when he turns to face his mates, he’s grinning. Kieran and Adam laugh. Kieran waggles a finger at him.
‘You should know there are no secrets from your mates, Cor-blimey,’ he chastises. ‘And speaking of secrets, Adam, what’s up with you and Skye Wētere? And don’t tell us she’s helping you with your English.’ Resting his chin on his knuckles, he looks expectantly at Adam.
‘She is helping me with English,’ Adam insists. Safely out of the firing line, Corey pulls a small stool out from under the piano and sits down, his back to the instrument.
‘Yeah, don’t keep us in the dark, Adam,’ he says.
‘Details, Adam.’
Adam sighs. Kieran isn’t going to let this go. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he says, flopping on the bed beside Kieran. ‘We went to the video shop and got out the DVD of The Importance of Being Earnest. Then we went back to her place and watched it.’ Kieran sits forward.
‘In her room?’
‘In the lounge. On the sofa.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. We watched the movie.’ Kieran collapses back on the pillows.
‘Exactly how close did you sit?’ Corey asks now.
‘Seven-point-two-six centimetre average separation,’ Adam jokes. ‘Slightly closer at the hip than the knee due to sag in the sofa. What is this anyway? The Spanish Inquisition?’
For some reason, he doesn’t want to share. Not even with Kieran and Corey. It’d been great spending the better part of Friday afternoon snuggled up to Skye on the sofa. Surrounded by the buttery smell of microwave popcorn. Talking about the movie. Following the text open on Skye’s knees. There’d just been the two of them because Skye’s mother was still at work. Each time Skye had pointed the remote to rewind the movie, she’d leaned in towards Adam. It was exquisite. Twice Adam had deliberately pretended not to hear the dialogue so Skye had to rewind bits. And lean over. Afterwards, Skye had asked about his family. They’d even talked a bit about Mum. It was nice. She’d told him about herself, too. How there was just her and Aroha and how she’d never met her dad. Seems he’d shot through before Skye was born. Skye was matter-of-fact about it. Turns out, she’s got heaps of whānau: aunties and cousins who live over in the Waikato. N
ear Te Awamutu. Skye usually spends a couple of weeks there in the summer holidays...
‘Did you kiss her?’ The question is blunt, even for Kieran.
‘Don’t be an arse.’ But part of him had wanted to. Part of him had desperately wanted to lean in and kiss Skye Wētere.
Chapter 17
Tuesday after training, Adam watches as a boy with sloping shoulders makes his way down the street. Wearing a grey hoodie, dark jeans and canvas kung fu shoes, the boy’s hands are buried deep in the pockets of his sweatshirt. He walks with deliberate intent, his head down. Any of Adam’s neighbours chancing a look out of their front window right now would see only his lean shape and hurried gait, his face, reduced to the occasional flash of broad nose, concealed in the depths of the hood.
This boy is Adam’s prey.
Adam haunts him, moving soundlessly from tree to fence, keeping his distance, watching and waiting. Something in his demeanour had alerted Adam the moment the boy emerged from the dairy. He isn’t from around here, Adam’s sure about that. And he isn’t a regular customer either: he hasn’t turned up on the other evenings Adam’s held vigil outside the dairy. Perhaps it’d been the boy’s furtive glances left and right, or the fact that he hadn’t bothered to buy anything in spite of hurrying into the store only minutes before Mr Singh closed up. Whatever it was, Adam felt compelled to follow him. Grateful to be still wearing his running shoes, Adam crosses the road and takes up a position behind a lemon bush in Mrs Steele’s front yard. As he pulls a branch aside to better track the boy, it occurs to Adam that in real life surveillance is less sexy and more prickly than it is on TV. He peers through the thicket of woody stems.
Unaware he’s being watched, the hoodie boy pads down the street. Outside Mr Wilson’s house he stops and looks about. He pulls a can from inside his clothes, pulls off the cap, shakes it quietly. Adam almost smiles. Contractors from the council came only days ago to paint out the tagging on the transformer. This guy’s back to do the deed again. Adam can hardly believe his luck.
The lemon branch flicks back, the leaves rustling as they hit Adam’s jacket. The small sound pierces the hushed gloom of the street. Startled, the boy looks about, his head darting left and right, still shrouded in the hood. Adam jumps back into the shadows of Mrs Steele’s house. He stands still and doesn’t dare to breathe. A car drives past. The boy stuffs the can into his sweat pocket and sits on Mr Wilson’s concrete fence, dangling his feet and rocking to music on an imaginary iPod.
Clever.
He looks as if he’s waiting for a mate or a bus or something. When the car has turned into the next street, the boy slips off the fence and whips out his can again. This time he doesn’t muck around. The deed is done within seconds: a smear of illegible script in fuck-you red and with a final flamboyant flourish through the centre. He steps back to admire his handiwork for a moment, then flings the can into Mr Wilson’s flowerbed before setting off down the road.
Adam hurls himself over Mrs Steele’s front wall after the boy.
Accelerating from a standing start.
Fast feet, fast feet, fast feet.
Every footfall closing the space between them. But at this tempo, Adam can’t help the slap his trainers make on the tar seal. Annoyed, Adam propels himself forward, but the boy, on alert, hears Adam’s approach. He tears away, veering right, his camouflage hoodie flopping backwards as he flees.
He’s fast, but Adam is faster—thanks to Reece’s tick-the-box training programme. A few deep lungfuls of evening air, half a dozen stride-outs and he’s back on the boy’s heels. He lunges.
The boy ducks away, weaving inside. ‘Fuck off!’ he hisses.
Adam dives for the boy’s knees, tackles him to the ground and pins him there, his face in the grass at the edge of the road. He’s young, only about thirteen, but full of bravado.
‘Get off me! I didn’t do nothing!’ he yelps, but not so loudly that the neighbours will hear and come out to check what’s going on.
‘You were tagging the transformer box.’
‘I wasn’t.’ The boy wriggles to free himself. Adam holds him fast.
‘I saw you.’
‘Must’ve been someone else.’ His tone is defiant.
‘You see anyone else in the vicinity?’
‘Yeah? So what if you saw me? Just your word against mine.’ The boy twists around sharply and looks Adam in the face, scanning his features for weakness.
‘Took a picture on my iPhone,’ Adam bluffs.
‘That won’t prove anything. I had my hoodie on.’
Adam shrugs, loosens his hold a little. ‘Up to you. I happen to think it’s a pretty convincing photo.’ The kid pales. Not so brave, then. Adam goes on. ‘I could delete it, but I need some information. Something you might be able to help me with.’ The boy jerks desperately, probably thinking if he could slip free of Adam’s grasp, he might still get away with it. Adam tightens his grip.
‘Just because I’m into tagging, doesn’t mean I’m into drugs,’ the boy says with a plucky lift of his chin. ‘I don’t do that stuff. Don’t take it, don’t sell it. Don’t know who does either. So I can’t help you there.’
‘It’s not drugs.’
The boy’s eyes narrow. ‘So, what then? What kind of information?’
‘You tagged the box last time, didn’t you? About three weeks ago?’
‘Nah, that wasn’t me. You got the wrong guy.’
‘Pity,’ Adam says, using his weight to press the boy back to the ground. ‘I’ve still got this photo. And Mr Wilson was pretty steamed last time. I reckon he might even back me up. With my photo to corroborate it, he might even say he looked out the window, saw you doing it...’
‘Shit!’
‘That was you. Three weeks ago.’ It’s a statement, not a question. The boy twists and squirms some more, but Adam has the upper hand and, after a couple of futile jerks, he relaxes.
‘Okay, what say it was me? I’m not saying it was, but you know, if it was...’
‘What time did you tag the box?’
‘Hey, I didn’t say it was me...’
‘I. Said. What. Time?’ Adam snarls, impatient now.
‘I dunno. Around five o'clock?’
‘You see anyone else in the street?’
‘How dumb do ya think I am? I wouldn’t have tagged the box if someone was about.’
‘So you didn’t see anyone? No one walking past on the footpath on the other side of the road?’
‘Nah.’
‘A car, maybe?’
‘There might’ve been a car.’
‘What sort of car?’
‘I don’t know. A car. What does it matter?’
‘Colour?’
‘No idea.’
‘Make?’ The boy glares.
Adam insists, ‘You’re sure you didn’t see anyone?’
‘Nup.’
‘No one out walking their dog?’
‘You already asked me. There was no one around. This street is dead!’
Adam shudders at the boy’s choice of words. Defeated, he pushes him away and collapses on the grass verge close to tears. The hoodie boy was right here on the street, maybe steps away from Adam’s mother, and yet he didn’t see her. It’s as if she were invisible, as if she vanished into nothingness. Adam feels a wrenching in his chest. He’s lost her all over again.
Slumped beside Adam, the boy sniffs, intruding on his grief.
‘Go on, get!’ Adam shouts. The boy doesn’t leave. Instead, he hovers beside Adam for a few moments, then hunkers down beside him on the grass.
‘So what’s this about, aye?’
Adam stares into the gloom. ‘My mother disappeared that night.’
‘Oh.’ The boy sits for a minute, thinking. Then he says, ‘She the one in the photo at the dairy?’
‘Yeah. She was going there. I thought... I thought...’ Adam chokes up.
‘I didn’t see her. Honest. I’d tell you if I did.’
Adam doesn
’t really blame the kid. Who even registers other people’s mothers? Mothers are just there, aren’t they? You can spend hours hanging out in their homes, eating their cooking, and befriending their kids without even registering them. Mothers are flat and soulless like cardboard cut-outs: middle-aged, ordinary, invisible. The revelation rocks Adam.
Is that how other people saw his mother?
The boy looks at Adam with eyes full of intelligence.
‘You going to be okay?’
‘Sure. Go on. Get home.’
‘You’re not going to dob me in?’
‘No.’
The kid cocks his head. ‘What about the photo?’
‘I didn’t take your photo. I was bullshitting.’
‘Thought so.’ A lopsided grin.
‘You did not!’
‘You’re right, I was pissing myself.’
‘You need to get a new hobby.’
‘Yeah, right!’
‘You should. Eventually, you’re going to get caught, you know. There are other things to do for a buzz. You could try running, you’re pretty fast. Or rugby league.’
There’s a pause.
‘I’m sorry about your mum.’ Adam’s surprised. The boy seems sincere.
‘Thanks.’
With a hand, the boy gestures behind him at the houses. ‘You live in one of these?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You should go home. People might be getting worried about you. You know, because of your mum.’
Adam nods and pulls himself to his feet. The kid’s maybe thirteen, he’s a tagger, and here he is telling Adam what to do, like he’s the responsible one!
