Misplaced

by Murray, Lee

  ‘It wasn’t something she planned. It was a shock for the family, I think?’

  ‘Yes.’ Adam leans forward. ‘Yes, it was.’ He holds his breath.

  ‘She didn’t know it was going to happen herself. I feel perhaps that it hasn’t been long, about a... year...’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘No, no... I may have that wrong... I think she is saying a month.’ Kieran sighs loudly.

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s closer,’ Skye says.

  Then Corey blurts, ‘Yeah, it’s been five weeks since she di—’

  ‘Died?’ Anna says.

  They fall silent.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Anna insists. ‘What’re you not telling me?’

  ‘It’s just that we don’t exactly know if she’s dead,’ Skye says.

  ‘You don’t know if your mother is dead?’

  Anna gets up and turns the lights on. Then she faces them all again, her eyes flaring.

  ‘Let me get this right. You young people have come to me for a séance with this boy’s dead mother, but you’re not sure if she’s actually dead?’

  Adam sighs. ‘That’s just it. I think she could be, but I need confirmation.’

  Agitated, Anna gestures to them to vacate the chairs. She starts pushing them back into position, darting from one chair to the next.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t do confirmation. I don’t specialise in that form of mediumship.’

  ‘But just now you said you were talking to her,’ Kieran insists. Anna stops her darting. She grips the back of one of the stacking chairs.

  ‘It might have been her,’ she says, her back rigid. ‘Or it might not. Spirits can be playful, particularly... er… around the full moon. It could’ve been another person with the same name. There are plenty of people called Tiffany, you know.’

  ‘But you...’

  ‘Like I said, it’s up to the spirits to choose.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Skye says. ‘The Tiffany who appeared to you said Adam was her favourite child.’

  ‘Yeees.’

  ‘But Adam’s an only child.’

  ‘Well, there you are then.’ The medium throws up her hands, relieved to have been handed an explanation. ‘It’s clearly a case of mistaken identity. I must’ve been channelling another mother named Tiffany seeking to make contact with one of her surviving children. It’s a common enough name.’

  Skye leaps to her feet.

  ‘Oh, what a load of crap! Come on, Adam. This whole thing has been a complete waste of time.’ She grabs Adam’s arm, leading him away. Kieran and Corey follow their friends. But Adam hesitates, turning back towards Anna.

  ‘You definitely can’t tell me if my mother is dead?’ he asks.

  ‘Sorry.’ At least she looks remorseful.

  ‘Come on, guys. Let’s go,’ Skye says again.

  ‘Wait! There is something. That’s odd.’ The medium turns to Corey. ‘I think it’s for you. She frowns. ‘It’s... a word. Abs... abs... absquatulated! There, that’s it!’ Her message delivered, Anna shivers. But Adam and his friends are too stunned to notice.

  It’s a thirteen-letter word. Corey’s eyes open wide.

  ‘There’s something else, too.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I take cash, EFTPOS or Visa.’

  After the séance, they hang out at Skye’s place. The Farmers’ Final Winter Sale is still on, so Aroha is at work. Skye hands them all a can of Coke. Slamming the fridge door, she joins Adam on the sofa, pulling her legs under her.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Adam,’ she says, laying a hand on top of Adam’s. Her fingers are cold from handling the cans.

  ‘And me,’ Adam says, flatly.

  ‘I shouldn’t have been so snarky. For some reason, that woman really annoyed me. It just didn’t seem right, charging you money to talk to your own family members. If they want to send you a message, they’ll find a way.’

  ‘She’s a bloody con artist!’ Kiernan snorts. His arms folded across his chest, he’s standing at the sliding door, looking out over the balcony at the water. It’s a September afternoon, and the sea is grey and uninviting. Leaning against the kitchen counter, Corey puts his can down.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t entirely useless. She did give us something.’

  ‘Yeah, what was that word?’ Skye asks, sitting up.

  Kieran turns to face them. ‘It sounded to me like she said... a sasquatch,’ he says.

  Adam shakes his head in disbelief. It’s difficult enough learning the whereabouts of your mother through a medium, but finding out she’s been abducted by a sasquatch is beyond all credence. Corey feigns exasperation.

  ‘You’re the only sasquatch here, Kieran. I’m sure she said absquatulated.’

  ‘Anyone got the foggiest what that means?’ Kieran asks.

  They all shake their heads. No one has any idea. Skye whips into her room and comes back with her school dictionary. She fans the book, opening it at the front.

  ‘What was it again?’

  ‘Absquatulated,’ Corey repeats. He starts to spell it out. ‘A-B-S-Q-U...’

  ‘Abolish... absorb... absquatulate... Got it!’ Her finger on the page, Skye reads the definition. ‘Absquatulate: To leave in a hurry, or under suspicious circumstances.’

  ‘Well, at least we got our answer,’ Corey says.

  Dejected, Adam lets his shoulders slump. $100 poorer and he’s right back where he started.

  Chapter 25

  When Adam arrives home after training on Tuesday night, he’s greeted by the delicious scent of slow-cooked lamb. Moroccan Lamb! Yum. Adam’s favourite. His pulse races.

  Mum’s home!

  It could only be Mum. Has to be. Dad wouldn’t have a clue how to cook Moroccan Lamb. Mum’s home again! Everything will go back to normal. Adam could leap a line of hurdles, he’s so excited. He drops his running gear on the porch and runs inside, slamming through the back door and diving into the kitchen with a finish line lunge that would make Reece proud.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Hello, Adam.’ Adam’s heart sinks. It’s not Mum. It’s Maar-ii-lyyn. Dad’s piece of fluff. She and Dad are standing at the bench, wine glasses in hand. For the life of him, Adam doesn’t know what his old man sees in her: her skin is too pink and her dress is too bloody flowery. She’s still stuck in the eighties, wearing a peach-coloured blazer over her dress, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

  Adam’s stomach clenches. ‘What’s she doing here?’ he snaps. The red liquid in Dad’s glass sloshes violently as he puts it down. He moves behind Marilyn, placing his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Adam! You cut that out right now,’ he says, annoyed. ‘That is not the way to greet a guest. Marilyn is a guest in our home, in MY home, so I expect you to be pleasant and courteous. Say hello, please.’

  ‘It’s fine, Phil...’ the fluff interjects. Adam smirks, setting Dad off on a rant.

  ‘No, Marilyn, it’s not fine. He’ll show some respect. He may have an issue with me, but he has no right to take it out on you. I did not raise a hooligan. Adam.’

  Adam rolls his eyes. He’s being surly, but he can’t help himself. It’s as if he has to put up a fight for Mum’s sake. Besides, this is just as much Mum’s house as Dad’s. Someone has to respect her, too.

  ‘Adam.’ Dad’s voice is tight.

  ‘Heeello, Maarilyn,’ Adam says cheesily. He raises his eyes at Dad, daring him to take issue. But Marilyn places a hand on Dad’s arm and gives Adam a Sesame Street smile.

  ‘Hello, Adam. I hope you don’t mind me taking over the kitchen this evening. I thought the two of you might like a home-cooked dinner, made fresh and not reheated. It’s nothing much—I’m no cordon bleu, I’m afraid—but your Dad said you were doing a lot of running training lately, and I thought you could do with a proper dinner.’

  ‘I can cook my own dinner.’

  ‘Adam. I’m warning you...’ Dad steps in front of Marilyn.

  ‘What? I’m just sayin
g I can cook my own dinner. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Oh, I know you can cook, Adam,’ Marilyn says, gently nudging Dad aside. ‘I just thought I’d save you the trouble this once. I know you’ve got a lot on at the moment. It’ll be ready in half an hour. You might want to pop up and have your shower first. I’ll get your Dad to show me where the table settings are.’

  Adam flounces upstairs. His room is a tip. Nothing has been tidied away since Aunty Mandy went home. There are dirty socks on the floor, a couple of pairs of underpants and some whiffy running gear from two days ago. A pizza box, one still containing a mouldering crust, has been pushed to the back of his desk. It’s pretty disgusting, even for him. Well, there’s no way he’s going to have a shower. Not on your life. He’ll just go down there in his funky gear and if they don’t like it, then stiff shit. He’s not about to play happy families just because they want him to. Fuck that. Sitting at his desk, he fires up Morterain’s Curse. There’s still a chance of defeating one evil overlord today.

  Dad looks tense when Adam comes down for dinner after forty minutes battling in the last quadrant.

  ‘Adam! I thought you were going to have a shower.’

  ‘Not enough time.’

  ‘What? That’s...’ But Marilyn steps in, spoon in hand.

  ‘Phil, really, there’s no need to make a fuss. Adam didn’t know I’d be cooking dinner here this evening. We should’ve let him know. That way he might have been able to get home a little earlier for a shower. There’s no point in hassling him. Take a seat, Adam. I’m just about to dish up.’

  Adam is sticky and uncomfortable. He wishes now he’d taken the time to have a wash.

  ‘Phil, would you mind helping me carry the casserole over, please? It’s Moroccan Lamb, Adam. Your father tells me it’s one of your favourites.’

  Placing the casserole on a cork mat, Dad removes the lid. Wearing those pot mitts, Adam thinks he looks like Mickey Mouse.

  ‘Wow, that smells terrific, Marilyn,’ Dad says, all rosy-eyed. He darts a look across the table, but Adam averts his eyes. He’s not going to be drawn into that one. They move to sit down with Adam and Dad automatically taking their normal places at the table. As soon as his bum hits the seat, Adam knows it’s a mistake. There are only four spots, three place settings. Marilyn’s about to sit in Mum’s place. Adam holds his breath, cutlery in hand.

  Suddenly, Dad gets it.

  Like a firecracker, Dad jumps up and offers Marilyn his chair.

  ‘What a duffer,’ he blunders. ‘Sitting down before a lady. What would my mother say?’

  Your mother? What would MY mother say?

  Finally seated, they begin their meal. Dishing himself up a large plateful, Adam starts eating, keen to get out of there. Actually, the dinner’s okay, almost as good as Mum’s, although only a life sentence sharing a cell with Justin Bieber would drag that admission out of him. Across the other side of the table, in Dad’s place, Marilyn lays a paper serviette in her lap. As she serves herself from the casserole, she inquires about Adam’s day and how his athletics training is going.

  Dad—bloody traitor—what’s he been telling her?

  It doesn’t matter. Adam has a strategy for holding out. She can ask all the questions she wants, she won’t be getting anything out of him. He takes a large mouthful of lamb and couscous.

  ‘Adam,’ Dad growls. ‘Marilyn asked you a perfectly civil question.’

  Adam waves his hands around his cheeks and exaggerates his chewing action. Brilliant. Dad can hardly complain about Adam not talking with his mouth full. He throws in a couple of appreciative eating noises. Amazing how long you can make a mouthful last when you have to.

  ‘I’m sorry, Marilyn. He’s not normally so...’

  ‘Hungry?’ Marilyn coos, sending Dad a message to let it be.

  Dad grunts. Adam can tell he wants to push it, but with Marilyn there, he won’t make a scene.

  Adam and Mum, 1: Dad and Marilyn, 0.

  Since Adam won’t communicate, Dad changes tack, making Adam his audience. He starts in telling Adam how this young couple with a baby had come to the yard this morning to look at a late-model Nissan Tiida. Dad tells how he strolled over and got the ball rolling, gave this couple all the specs, let them take it for a test drive, got them interested, and then he’d popped out, supposedly to make a phone call, at which point Marilyn had stepped in and offered them terms, car mats, a full tank of gas and their first 6-monthly service for free.

  ‘You had them eating out of your hand, Marilyn. I might need to move you out of the office and onto the yard. Handled the clients as well as any salesman.’

  ‘Phil! Don’t exaggerate, please. I was just being helpful, that’s all.’

  ‘Sealing the deal, more like. You should’ve seen her, Adam. A real pro... oh... I didn’t mean a pro... not in that sense, of course not...’ Flustered, Dad balls a paper serviette in his fist. Marilyn lays her hand on top of his and looks him in the eye.

  ‘I know what you meant, Phil.’ Her tone is all mellow and honey-like. Adam wants to gag.

  ‘So they signed up, took the keys and drove it off the yard. Not bad.’ Dad shakes his head in mock disbelief. ‘Not bad.’ Adam brings up the keys in his mind, wondering briefly if they included the protective key case with the Nissan logo stamped in the leather.

  ‘Really, Phil. That’s enough now.’

  Adam agrees. It’s not as if Marilyn did anything spectacular. All she did was offer the couple the same cash deal Creighton’s gives everyone. Just sweetened the deal by making it seem exclusive. It’s a common sales trick. People like to feel they’re getting a bargain.

  Marilyn and Dad continue their cheery banter. They’ve hardly eaten anything. Their food is getting cold. Watching them is making Adam sick. It’s not like he’s come home and found them pashing on the sofa, they’re not that obvious. It’s just that Dad’s so animated. He’s pushed his shoulders back so his body’s upright. He seems taller and he might even be holding his stomach in. No cajoling required to get him to come out from behind his newspaper tonight. Adam hardly recognises him. It’s like it’s his dad, but it’s not him. He wonders if Dad was this cheery and appeasing when he was courting with Mum. Adam bets Gran and Grandpa made him sweat.

  Well, don’t worry. Adam’s going to make him sweat this time, too.

  I can’t sleep. Mrs Paine is right. This is getting to be a habit. Maybe tomorrow she’ll let me have another little kip on the couch in her office. I’ve spent a fair number of our therapy sessions catching up on lost sleep. According to Mrs Paine, sleep deprivation is a problem in itself. She’s suggested seeing my GP for a prescription for sleeping pills, just a few doses so I don’t come to rely on them. Mrs Paine is convinced it could help snap me out of my ‘on-going pattern of wakefulness’. I don’t know. Maybe I should see the doctor. During the day, it’s hard to think. There’s too much going on, too much buzz, it’s like trying to listen to a poetry reading and truly comprehend the meaning of words while Santana plays full tilt in the background. At night when everyone is asleep and the airwaves are quiet, I can think things through. It’s safe at night. The dark hides my secrets.

  Tonight was tough, having to watch Dad and Marilyn making nice. After dinner, the pair of them puttered around in the kitchen doing the dishes, pouring themselves more wine and chatting about this and that. I took my protein shake into the living room. I really wanted to have a shower, but somehow I couldn’t make myself leave Dad and Marilyn. I felt a bit like you do driving past a road accident: horrified and concerned, but at the same time you can’t help rubbernecking out the window at the destruction. I stayed in the living room watching a special on the Japanese earthquake, sipping my shake and keeping one ear on the goings-on behind me in the kitchen.

  The television presenter said the Japanese earthquake of March 2011 generated enough power to fuel the United States for thirty years. All that energy underneath the earth. Waiting for a chance to break through. Foot
age of the tsunami that followed the earthquake showed a massive wall of water laden with cars and boats and parts of people’s homes, rushing guilelessly into the valleys, a tide of death and debris. In the dark of my room, I cry a tsunami.

  Afterwards, the water seeps away, leaving only emptiness and loss.

  Chapter 26

  Just two days away from the school holidays, Adam and Skye hang out at her place after school, a stack of glossy leaflets and guides spread out on the coffee table. Today the entire senior school was bussed in to the annual Careers Expo in town. The Expo hall had been set up in a grid, the booths animated with moving displays and colourful banners. Loudspeakers boomed out Beyoncé and the Black Eyed Peas. Adding to the noise, the aisles were crammed with rowdy students enjoying a break from their regular lessons. Most of the universities were represented at the show, their youngest staff members enjoying a day away from the office hanging out with the students, handing out free fridge magnets, lanyards and canvas bags, and while we’re at it, why not have a copy of our undergraduate prospectus? Larger organisations like power companies, the military and some local authorities were there too, trawling for top students for their fast-track career programmes. There’d been too much to take in in one go, so Adam and Skye had collected up material from the places that interested them, intending to look through it later.

  Skye flicks through the pages of a student budget planner.

  ‘Look, they’ve even given us a meal plan for flatters with shopping lists and tips for saving. There’s a whole heap of recipes: Tuna and Potato Bake, Sausage Pasta, and here’s one for Baked Bean Fritters.’

  Adam looks over the top of the Accommodation Guide for Victoria University.

  ‘Well, that can go straight in the bin. Kieran and I think we might go flatting together, so for obvious reasons, I’ll be banning baked beans from the menu plan.’

  Giggling, Skye discards the pamphlet. She rummages through the stack for Massey University’s prospectus. When she finds the booklet, she leafs through the pages, eventually stopping near the centre.