Hana Du Rose

by K T Bowes

  Hana let him support her weight, the closest contact they’d had for weeks. The sensation of safety reminded her of happier times and she realised how much she’d missed him. “Just sickness,” she managed. “It’s nothing else.”

  He nodded with relief at her reassurance and cradled her in his arms. Caroline’s accusations continued in the background. Exhausted, Hana waited for the nausea to pass, knowing it would. Unsatisfied, Caroline moved in for the kill, her face a livid flush of rage. She yanked at Logan’s jacket, causing him to rebound into Hana and knock her off balance.

  “Leave it,” Hana hissed as she felt his body tense, clinging onto him to right herself. Logan’s hands shook as he rounded on Caroline, pure hatred in his grey eyes.

  “Do you want me to say it, Caroline?” he shouted, to the pleasure of the bystanders. “You’re happy for everyone to know the terms of our engagement?” Caroline swallowed and lost some of her fire. Logan gripped Hana around the waist with his right hand. “You don’t mind everyone knowing how you begged me for the Du Rose name and a place in my family? In return, I’d get a trophy wife and the freedom to live my own life. I haven’t touched you for years, Caroline and I couldn’t after what you did. You bought yourself a marriage of convenience and then backed out. That isn’t my child and I pity the man it really belongs to. You’re poison. Leave us alone or I’ll take out an injunction. Do you want that?”

  The spectators recognised the end of the performance and shuffled towards their vehicles as Caroline gaped like a stunned fish. Hana let Logan’s outburst filter through her thick head and the nausea made a last ditch attempt at winning the war. “Logan, please?” A sob sounded in Caroline’s throat as she turned her rage to pleading. “I need your help. I still love you. They made me do it. They stopped me going to the wedding. You don’t understand.”

  “I want to go home.” Hana inhaled and Logan’s faded aftershave touched a trigger for her sickness.

  Caroline yanked on Logan’s sleeve again, buffeting Hana without regard. “Logan!” she snapped, her tone aggressive. “Listen to me!”

  “Let go!” Logan moved sideways, attempting to release himself and support Hana at the same time. Left with a clear line of fire, Hana gave up suppressing the desire to puke and projectile vomited across Caroline’s exquisite Prada shoes. Logan dived sideways but Caroline shrieked in horror. When she moved backwards, she left an outline of her pointy feet in the wet mess. Hana concentrated on breathing, counting the gulps of oxygen in and carbon dioxide out. She cared about nothing aside from getting home and into her warm bed.

  “Come, Hana.” A body squeezed between her and the car and Hana saw the passenger door open. Boris tapped her on the shoulder and spoke to Logan. “I have her. Get in ze car and take her home.” Hana mouthed her thanks and sank into the seat, grateful for the hands which fastened her seatbelt and sat her handbag in the foot well.

  Boris moved Caroline aside like a cop executing crowd control duties. His ashen face spoke volumes. Hana groaned at the revelation and laid her head back against the rest, closing her eyes and concentrating on her ragged breaths. “Stupid man,” she sighed and relaxed against the motion of the vehicle. Her fingers fluttered over her abdomen and she prayed away the sickness.

  Hana wound the window down at Flagstaff, gulping in fresh air. She covered her eyes with a shaking hand. “I can’t believe it,” she gasped. Caroline’s revulsion as the vomit splattered across shoes equivalent to the cost of an average car, seemed hilarious with hindsight. A laugh bubbled in Hana’s chest. She groaned and writhed in her seat as mirth vied with discomfort.

  “What’s wrong?” Logan swerved into a side road and jammed the handbrake on, leaning across to shake Hana’s shoulder. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”

  “I puked on her shoes.” Hana pressed her fingers over her lips. “What a shot.”

  Logan snorted and laid his head back against the seat. “Yeah, babe. Right on target.” He sighed and ran a tired hand across his face. “Bloody hell, Hana, you were right. We just can’t catch a break.”

  Hana nodded and remembered the expression on Boris’ face. He looked like a man under a spell. It meant they weren’t the only ones in trouble.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The holidays arrived at the culmination of an endless term. A very pregnant looking Izzie and a growing Elizabeth visited, filling the house with laughter. Everywhere they went, people asked Izzie about her due date, refusing to believe she still had four and a half months before her.

  Jas spent a few nights out at Culver’s Cottage without his parents, revelling in the connection with his new aunty and cousin. He cried when Izzie waddled back to Invercargill. Despite many late night talks and lots of time spent together, Hana managed to keep her pregnancy secret from her daughter. It wasn’t deliberate, but the continued uncertainty in her relationship heightened her sense of foolishness. She hid her diminishing sickness and Izzie went home unaware. At the end of the first week, Hana realised the nausea came less, confirming her suspicion she fell pregnant as soon as Logan placed the ring on her finger.

  Hana spent the second week at Amy’s, looking after Jas. They baked, walked and played in the park, encouraging Hana maybe she could go round again in the parenting world. She met older mothers at the play park, women who excelled in their careers and left childbearing until later. They seemed patient and in control. Hana remembered her frantic parenting with Izzie and Bodie and wondered if she might make a better job this time. If ‘this time’ came to fruition. Fear still haunted the back of her mind and she pushed all thoughts of her infant out of reach.

  While Hana minded Jas, Logan organised their hazardous driveway up the steep incline to the house. He found one company willing to concrete and they spent the second week of the holiday doing it. Logan fetched his bike from the Gordonton house and used that to commute between Hamilton and Culver’s Cottage.

  “The gate is back on,” he told her one night, climbing into the spare double bed at Amy’s. “The drive looks great.”

  “I didn’t like the gate being off,” Hana commented, bunching herself into a corner away from her husband. “Those men might turn up and wait for us at the house.”

  Tiredness hijacked Logan’s patience and he snapped at her. “Bloody hell, Hana. The construction guys created a ditch filled with hard core from one end to the other. Nobody could get a vehicle up there and if your mates wanted to walk, they’d have a wasted trip, wouldn’t they?”

  Hana backed herself further into the corner and rested her bottom against the cold wall. Logan sighed, the sound echoing in the small room. “Hana, I hate this,” he whispered. “Come back to me.” He reached for her with tentative fingers and she slapped his hand in the darkness.

  “No,” she bit. “Don’t. I can’t deal with your crap at the moment. I don’t know who you are anymore. Please, just leave me alone.”

  “Do you regret marrying me?” Logan’s whisper channelled self-doubt.

  Hana turned on her side away from him and replied, “I don’t know. I can’t live with your secret meetings with faceless entities and women crawling out of the woodwork with paternity claims. So maybe I do regret it, yes.”

  As Hana distanced herself from Logan, Jas gravitated towards him. “Poppa Logan, bounce me!” he demanded. “Poppa Logan, can we do spitting in the bath?”

  The last night at Amy’s, Hana tolerated the shrieks and giggles from the bathroom for too long before investigating. She stood in the doorway, frozen in horror. “What did you do?” she squeaked.

  Jas popped up from a covering of bubbles and spat foamy water straight into Logan’s face. “That wasn’t fair!” Logan protested. “Hanny distracted me!”

  “You can clear this up,” she bit, staring at bubbles clinging to the ceiling. “Amy is on her way home.” She retreated to the bedroom, an ache beginning in her heart at the glimpse of Logan’s ease with the little boy. Curling into a ball on her bed, she cr
ied, more confused than she’d ever felt.

  Amy arrived home with a cut on her chin and a bruise spreading a blue hue across her cheek. “Don’t ask,” she said, raising a hand as Hana filled the kettle. “I’ve suffered worse.” She cocked her head at the sight of Hana’s puffy eyes and squeezed her shoulder. “This constant feeling that everything’s messed up will pass,” she promised.

  Hana nodded, unable to speak. When Logan walked into the kitchen with Jas slung over his shoulder in a towel, she gave Amy a weak smile and bolted to pack up her belongings in the bedroom.

  On the final Sunday of the holidays, Hana went back to her little church with Jas. Cilla greeted her with a warm hug and knitted her brow at the gold band on Hana’s finger. But Pastor Allen treated her the same as always and instructed her to sit with his family in the pew. Jas cosied up to the eldest of Allen’s sons, in awe of the bigger boy and copying his every move. Hana smiled at his antics, surprised when he followed Allen’s boys off to Sunday school without a backward glance.

  Charlotte and Gareth drifted in late and grabbed the last spaces next to Hana. During a hymn, Charlotte leaned across. “Gareth drove us,” she said with pride. “He got his full licence last week. He takes me to tennis too.”

  “Congratulations,” Hana mouthed at Gareth and gave him thumbs up. He rewarded her with a nod of acknowledgement, the same one he gave when she smiled at him at school. She wondered if Tama knew or cared about the damage he’d done. She doubted he gave it a second thought.

  Charlotte removed her earphones after the service and Hana saw Allen smirk and turn away. She nudged Gareth. “Get me a biscuit?” she asked.

  He nodded and stood, yanking his jeans up to hide some of his underwear, but not all. He shuffled after a moving plate of biscuits, his legs constrained by skinny jeans. Careful not to mention Anka, Hana asked, “Where’s your dad this week?”

  “Oh, he’s gone out with Mum buying furniture.”

  Hana kept her face straight, willing Charlotte to say more. She didn’t and Jas interrupted the moment. “Hanny!” he yelled from the other side of the room. “Can I get a gingernut?”

  Hana gave a pained nod and held up one finger. Charlotte giggled and covered her mouth with a hand. Each nail sported different coloured polish. She looked sideways at Hana. “I thought he meant you for a minute.” She frowned. “But you dyed out your red. I always liked it.”

  “I fancied a change.” Hana swallowed the truth and searched amongst the crowd for Jas. Standing didn’t help. He appeared from behind her, falling over Charlotte’s feet and carrying a swathe of drawings.

  “Here you go,” he said, dumping them on the seat. “I made Jesus less boring.” He wriggled free before she could catch him. “I’ll get you a biscuit.”

  Charlotte snorted and sifted through the art, giggling as she held up a scribbly Jesus with multi coloured sheep. “Oh, my!” she sniggered. “He’s made the shepherd’s crook into an assault rifle.”

  “Give me those!” Hana shuffled them into a pile, noticing Jesus wearing a bulletproof vest and a pointy green hat. His halo resembled pizza slices speckled with pepperoni. She watched Jas’ slow progress as an elderly matron circulated the biscuit tray above his head.

  “How’s Logan?” Allen asked as Charlotte joined the futile biscuit trail.

  “He went back to work.” Hana kept her eyes on Jas, watching as he clambered onto a pew and dived for the biscuit tray. He missed and the old lady kept going, oblivious of the frustration left in her wake. Allen’s wife scraped Jas off the carpet and stood him upright.

  Allen patted her hand. “Please tell Logan, I pray for his health and welfare often.”

  Hana fixed her wooden smile in place. “I can give you his phone number. Then you can tell him yourself.”

  Allen’s brow knitted and he peered at Hana through the tops of his eyes. She felt like a pre-schooler. “I hope you both know I’m here if you need me.”

  Hana opened her mouth to speak. She ached to blurt everything onto his capable shoulders and leave him to deal with it. Instead, she offered a lame thanks and rounded up Jas. She caught him putting four biscuits into his mouth at once and herded him outside. They didn’t make it before he coughed up runny gingernut mess onto the carpet. Hana banged him on the back, her eyes watering at the thought of childish vomit. “Oh, please,” she groaned. “Not here, not here.”

  “Is everything okay?” Allen’s wife put her hand on Hana’s shoulder and the promise of escape looked shaky. A tiny, bird boned woman, she looked the opposite of her burly husband.

  “I’m fine,” Hana gasped. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “That’s a contradiction in terms.” Allen took her arm and led her into the fresh air, a recovered Jas trotting in front of them.

  “What about the mess?” Hana asked. “I should clean it up.”

  “We’ll do it.” Allen handed her a business card. “Keep hold of this,” he said, slipping it into the pocket of her handbag.

  “But I know your number.” Hana frowned and reached for the card. Allen pulled her fingers away and patted the pocket.

  “Logan knows where I live, but not how to reach me otherwise,” he replied. “Please give it to him.”

  Hana drove Jas home, wishing she possessed the courage to tell the cleric the truth. But which truth? The one where her marriage crumbled beneath smoke and mirrors, or that she feared single parenting again. Or the worse truth of all that her infant may not survive long enough to know either of its parents. “I’m too old for this,” she said aloud.

  Jas peered at her through the rear view mirror and sighed. “Me an all,” he said. “I didn’t like that biscuit game.”

  Back at home, he sped around the house on a tricycle, bumping into walls and furniture. He cried when he pitched off the steps into the back garden and then claimed it as part of the trick. Hana comforted him with cuddles and promises, killing the call from Logan’s number to her phone. “Help me make lunch,” she asked and Jas dried his tears on her blouse.

  They made a peculiar smorgasbord of sandwiches, all of which revolted Hana. Jas tucked in to Marmite and blueberry jam while Hana tried not to look at the brown stuff oozing between his teeth. “Do you remember the little metal box I gave you?” she asked and he shook his head.

  “No.” The way he rolled his eyes raised Hana’s suspicion.

  “Yes you do. The night you didn’t want to leave my house. You fell over my bag and it came out.”

  “What does it look like?” Jas shifted on his seat and shoved half a chicken paste sandwich onto a peanut butter one. Hana looked away and described the box, even including a tiny dent in the top. Jas continued to deny all knowledge until she lost her patience.

  “I know you remember.” Hana sighed in frustration. “What’s the problem?”

  Jas leaned close and Hana held onto her breakfast as he wafted Marmite breath in her face. “Doctor X wants it. It’s the treasure chest. He’s got the place bugged.”

  “I’d like to see it,” Hana whispered, taking part in the charade. “To make sure it’s safe.”

  “It’s safe,” Jas hissed. He dropped to the floor and crawled beneath the table, sandwich in hand. Hana squeaked as he touched her leg.

  “Get back up here!”

  “No! Doctor X is listening.”

  Hana persuaded him to help her load the dishwasher as a cover. Then she found herself on her knees in the middle of Action Man’s battlefield. “What are we doing?” she whispered as Jas segregated tiny green soldiers with red armbands.

  “We need to look,” he said. “Let’s put everything away and get it all out again.”

  “Just show me the box.” Hana winced as a green soldier dug into her leg and Jas squealed and rescued him.

  “Careful, Hanny! He could shoot yer balls off.”

  “Too late!” Hana replied. “And don’t be rude.”

  Jas rolled his eyes and rescued four more green s
oldiers from beneath her.

  “Are you sure it’s here?” she groaned, an hour later.

  “No. I fink it’s gone.” Jas looked shifty, poking his tongue into the side of his mouth and moving from foot to foot. “Maybe Doctor X captured it.”

  Hana nodded, rolling the last of his little tee shirts and putting them into a drawer in perfect colour-coded order. Jas enjoyed the process, wrenching open a dark cupboard where more clothing lurked. “Ooh more, Hanny. Do these.”

  Hana knelt in the centre of the spotless room with her hands on her hips. “Did your mother ask you to clean your room?”

  “I think so.” Jas pushed his bottom teeth over his top lip. “I think this might be my last chance.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or she flushes my army down the toilet.”

  Hana groaned. “The metal box isn’t here, is it?”

  “I can’t remember.” Jas made goldfish faces with his lips. “You need to polish now.”

  “Polish yourself!” Hana sank onto the bed.

  “Okay.” Jas returned with white foam in his hair and an aerosol of polish in his hand. “I done it.”

  Half an hour later, they lay back on the bed. Swaddled in a towel, Jas wiped a hand through his hair. “It still stinks,” he announced and Hana groaned.

  “Tough,” she answered. “I’m gutted about that metal box.” She turned, so her face pressed against his pillow, smelling his baby shampoo and floral washing powder. Pushing her right hand under the pillow, her fingers contacted something sharp and she felt the sting of broken skin. “Ouch!” She pulled her hand out, sitting up to assess the damage.

  The paper cut smarted and blood pooled in the opening. Another round of nausea passed over her head like a damp cloth. “Oh no, not again,” she groaned.

  “Sorry, Hanny,” Jas whispered, cuddling her around the waist. He buried his face beneath her arm. “I’m a very bad boy.”