She climbed into bed and immediately found the dent in the mattress, as if it remembered her eighteen-year-old body. Her old compact stereo system still sat on the chest of drawers. She remembered the day she got it. If there was any other birthday — older or younger — where you expect to wake up feeling different, it’s your sixteenth. Zoe had looked at her reflection in the mirror that morning. She still had the odd pimple marring her olive skin, her breasts still resembled two fried eggs, and everything seemed the same in her world. Disappointing. When she walked into the lounge, Lillian as usual had her head down at her desk. She stood in front of her, not expecting much, but got nothing. The phone had rung. Her grandmother, wishing her happy birthday, telling her that her present was in the mail. She could see Lillian watching her as they chatted and from the one-sided conversation could tell that she gleaned what they were talking about. Her face went slack with realisation — she’d forgotten her daughter’s sixteenth birthday. Zoe didn’t need the awkward scene so said goodbye, grabbed her school bag and yelled that she was going to Alex’s and left Lillian to it. Next door Pam, who had remembered, thanks to Alex, gave her a hug and made her pancakes with maple syrup adorned with four yellow candles. When she got home from school the stereo was sitting in a box in her room. Nothing was said.
That was the day she felt a shift in Lillian. She started trying harder. Small things at first: offering to make her breakfast, help with homework; almost every day after that there was a homecooked dinner on the table. But by then it was too late. Zoe had had sixteen years of being an afterthought, and if Lillian figured a few meals and overdue conversations about friends and school work were going to fix that, she was wrong.
*
After fitful dozing and nightmarish dreams where Lillian locked Zoe in her room and told her she wasn’t going anywhere, Zoe woke feeling as though she had a hangover. She stumbled to the kitchen hoping for coffee. There was an array of herbal teas on the bench next to the jug, but no coffee. She searched the pantry but there were only water crackers, breakfast spreads, dried pasta and some canned goods. She reached to the back and found a packet of instant coffee. She thumped it against the bench: it had solidified into a hard chunk of undrinkable caffeine. She moaned.
In the fridge she found milk, yoghurt, eggs and brie, and in the vegetable bin a shrivelled lettuce and half a tomato growing a colony of mould on its slimy surface. In the freezer both shelves were lined with ready meals, and in the side door was Lillian’s wallet. Zoe frowned, holding the frozen piece of leather in her hands. She placed it on the bench and headed for her bedroom. She needed coffee before this day could start. It was going to be a long one.
She pulled on a pair of running tights and, looking out the window, grabbed a jersey. October in New Zealand was unable to make its mind up, turning on warm spring days one week, then torrential rain or even frosts the next.
Marching through the supermarket, head down, intent on getting her few staples, she prayed she wouldn’t bump into anyone she knew. She doubted she would but wasn’t prepared to risk eye contact with anyone. Placing her items in front of the cashier she heard a voice behind her.
‘Zoe? Zoe Haywood?’
Damn it.
She turned to the person behind her. Daniel Hepi. Tall, his dark skin perfect, sporting a few day’s growth, the kind of guy that made it look sexy, instead of lacking grooming skills. He was just as she remembered him.
‘Daniel. Hi.’
‘It’s been a while.’ He smiled at her, fine lines spreading out from his hazel eyes.
‘Yeah, it has.’
‘I’d say some party back in the day before we left for uni.’
‘Yeah, probably.’
‘I believe you yelled out that night, “Fuck you, Crawton, I’m outta here!”.’
Zoe blushed at the memory. Hazy now. A party down by the big lake, a bonfire, too much gin, days before she left Crawton for Auckland, never to return. Daniel had been in the same year as her, but she’d never really known him well. He was that ridiculously good-looking guy at school who was worshipped from a distance by the female population.
‘That sounds about right.’ Zoe collected the bag from the cashier and smiled a farewell to Daniel.
Out in the car park he caught up to her. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum.’
‘Thanks.’
‘We worked together, you know.’
‘I didn’t.’ She knew nothing about Lillian’s life. If she thought about it she probably would’ve assumed she was retired by now.
‘Are you just home for the funeral?’
‘I —’ Zoe paused. She had no idea. ‘I guess so.’
‘It would be nice to catch up. Coffee or something when you’re free.’
‘Really?’ The geeky teenager in her, the one who hung out with Alex around the back of the school library, felt a tingle of excitement.
Daniel laughed at her response.
‘I mean, that would be nice.’ Zoe was annoyed at herself for blushing. Was it possible she could get a date with the Daniel Hepi? The awkward teenager still living somewhere inside her gave adult Zoe a high-five. She smoothed back her hair, trying to compose herself.
‘I’ll let you go. I’ll see you at the funeral. When is it?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘Sorry, I guess it’s all still very fresh.’
‘No, that’s OK. I’m getting it all sorted today. There’ll be a notice in the paper once I get organised. Or maybe rely on Crawton’s famous grapevine.’
‘No problem. Good to see you, Zoe.’
She didn’t answer and watched him walk off to his car. She turned away immediately when she saw him turn back and smile, and retreated to her car, head down.
Back at Lillian’s Zoe spooned coffee and poured boiling water into the plunger. Behind the couch on the wall opposite the window were boxes of varied sizes. She got down on her knees. There was a steam mop, exercise equipment, beauty products, kitchen gadgets, even something called a bamboo bra. All of them held promises on the boxes that shouted out whatever was inside was going to make life easier, or make you prettier, slimmer or healthier.
‘All for four easy payments of $29.95,’ Zoe chirped out to herself, mocking the over-excited commentators on infomercial ads. None of the boxes had been opened and she wondered what Lillian had been thinking when she purchased them.
*
Alex called in mid-morning to take her to the funeral director’s. She spent an hour picking songs and poems and dodging questions from the funeral director about what she thought her mother would like best. She ended up lying, efficiently picking out two poems and two songs as if she knew exactly what Lillian would have liked. A Lesley Price had rung her that morning to say she had known Lillian very well from the community centre and that she would be happy to do the eulogy. Zoe jumped at the offer. The idea of speaking about Lillian and her life in front of a roomful of strangers petrified her. She would have no idea where to start and feared it would come off as a cool and calculated summary which sounded as though it had been downloaded from Wikipedia. After sorting catering and putting a notice in the Crawton Chronicle as well as the New Zealand Herald announcing Lillian’s death and funeral arrangements, she headed back to Lillian’s, willing the funeral to be over, willing a plan to emerge about where the hell she was supposed to go after this.
Chapter 9
A couple of days later Zoe was lounging on the couch when there was a knock at the door. Banishing thoughts of Harold Paynter, whom she still hadn’t heard from since she emailed her resignation letter, she opened the front door.
‘Hello, Ms Haywood. I’m Sergeant Max Vincent. May I come in?’
‘Hi, Sergeant. It’s Zoe. Please come in.’
He wiped his giant feet on the threadbare welcome mat and walked down the hall and into the lounge as if he knew ex
actly where he was going. His head came close to skimming the light shade.
‘Please, take a seat,’ said Zoe.
His knees set off popping noises as he descended into the armchair. His bulk — muscle, not fat, thought Zoe — squeezed into the confines of the chair. He looked around the room, his eyes finally settling on Zoe. ‘I just wanted to let you know the body, Lillian’s body,’ he corrected himself, ‘was released to the funeral home yesterday afternoon. You just need to drop off some clothing for her this afternoon. If that’s OK?’ He said this tentatively, as if it could be too much.
‘No problem. Thanks, Sergeant.’ Zoe felt awkward and she could tell that he did too. Maybe he didn’t do this often. She remembered him from her teenage years. He must be in his fifties now. What had been inky black hair was now thin and flecked with grey. He had the same kind eyes and understanding smile which now seemed to be glued on. At the parties Zoe went to in her late teens he would often make an appearance to split up fights between guys who were overflowing with alcohol and testosterone. He would ask for the music to be turned down and often give kids a ride home after they’d had their heads down the toilet for the last hour. He had let a lot slide over the years. When parents should have been told about their children’s indiscretions, Max often stayed quiet and gave kids a warning.
‘Was there anything else, Sergeant?’
‘We got the autopsy report back. Tox reports show Lillian died from respiratory failure caused by an overdose of codeine.’
‘Suicide,’ Zoe said.
‘We haven’t received the coroner’s report yet, but, yes, that’s what it’s looking like.’
‘Right.’ Zoe had nothing else to say. She still couldn’t believe it.
‘It looks like the codeine was prescribed to her by Dr Meade. We understand she sprained her wrist quite badly back in February?’
Zoe had no idea, so nodded. ‘Sergeant, did you know Lillian well?’
‘Pretty well. The station has a bit of involvement with the school, giving talks on drugs and alcohol, as well as with the community centre. If any of the kids ever got in trouble she was always involved. Always in their corner. She was a good woman.’
‘Do you have any idea why she’d do this? Was she unhappy?’
Max adjusted himself in his chair. ‘I couldn’t really answer that, Zoe. But there were some incidents … I don’t know if anyone’s told you yet.’ He wiped a hand across his cleanly shaven chin.
Zoe waited, thinking of the wallet in the freezer and the collection behind the couch.
‘She’d been acting a bit … funny.’
‘Funny?’
‘Like she was not all there, you know.’ He tapped the side of his square head.
‘How long had this been going on?’
‘Oh, a couple of years now, I guess, but only really bad in the last six months or so.’
‘Bad? What do you mean?’ Zoe was starting to get frustrated.
‘Look, I don’t think I should be the person discussing this with you. Especially not just before the funeral. I don’t want to upset you any more than necessary. You’re friends with Alex Buchanan, aren’t you? Maybe he can shed some light on it for you.’
‘Of course,’ Zoe said.
‘Can I ask if you heard from your mother?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Any phone calls just before she died? Sent you anything in the post? Just mentioned anything out of the ordinary?’ He sounded as if he was going to carry on but his words drifted off and they looked at each other in silence for a beat.
Zoe took a deep breath, sick of pretending. ‘Sergeant.’
‘Please, call me Max.’
‘Max. You should know that I haven’t seen or spoken to Lillian in many years. I have no idea what kind of person she was, who her friends were or what she got up to.’
Max nodded, taking in her confession. For whatever reason, her answer seemed to please him. ‘No judgements here, Zoe. I deal with a lot of families and realise not everyone’s always on the best of terms. This is good,’ he said, rising from his chair, wincing as his knees strained. ‘The fact you’ve come home to give your mum a proper send off.’
Zoe felt better for his words.
‘I’d better be going. Make sure you get down to the funeral home. They’ll be expecting you.’
Ten minutes later Zoe entered Lillian’s bedroom as though she was stepping into a church, quietly, her breathing hushed. She tried her best not to look around. She wasn’t quite ready to inspect Lillian’s private domain. The room was stuffy so she opened the ranch slider, trying to ignore the faint perfume that lingered. The wardrobe was perfectly organised, of course: shoes were lined up neatly in pairs on a wooden shoe rack, perfectly pressed trousers and shirts hung from wire coat hangers. Lillian was far from a fashionista. Work was always dress pants and a shirt, sometimes a jacket; weekend wear was jeans in winter and knee-length shorts or capris and T-shirts in summer. Zoe reached in and pulled out a navy blue suit and a white shirt, then reached down for a pair of black court shoes with a small heel.
She stood in the centre of the room. Again, nothing was out of place. The dressing table had a bottle of Opium perfume on it, a box of tissues and a hairbrush. The small silver frame, tarnished almost black now, stood in its same spot on the dresser. Zoe couldn’t remember her so-called stepfather, Dave, the love of Lillian’s life, she was sure. Zoe had his surname but knew nothing about him. She looked at the photo. She always thought he looked like a kind man, soft brown eyes and an easy smile. He had left before Zoe had turned two.
Zoe turned to the queen-size bed and wondered if anyone had shared the bed with Lillian since she’d been away. All through Zoe’s childhood and teens there had never been anyone. No dates, no random guy turning up at the door with flowers, and, god forbid, no stranger at the breakfast table one morning.
Zoe walked from the room, aware that she would have to go through the rest of Lillian’s things at some stage. It can wait.
*
‘Would you like to see her?’ the middle-aged man asked once Lillian had been prepared. Zoe felt the best response would be yes so found herself nodding when she just wanted to get up and leave. She left the bright main lobby of the funeral home and was taken into a small dark room. The carpet on the floor, oddly, was pale pink and very plush. She felt her shoes sink in. There were net curtains on one small window and on the far wall hung a mish-mash of religious symbols from a Star of David to Christ on the Cross to the Muslim crescent and the Buddhist lotus flower.
Covering all his bases, Zoe thought. Lillian would be impressed.
There was a wooden chair in the corner with a pedestal behind it. A vase of spring flowers sat atop, its heady perfume almost, but not quite, masking the smell of chemicals.
‘I’ll give you a moment. Just come out when you’re done.’
Zoe ignored the urge to follow him out of the room and, smoothing her hair back with her hand, turned to face the open coffin. She started at the base and her eyes made their way up the body. Lillian was visible from the waist up. Zoe dragged her eyes over Lillian’s buxom frame and let them rest on her face. She shouldn’t have been surprised that she looked old. She would have turned seventy-four in June. She was an old lady. Elderly. Deep lines were carved out between her eyes and horizontally across her forehead. Lines on either side of her mouth were so deep they appeared to pull her lips down, giving her the exact expression in death Zoe remembered her wearing her whole life — disappointment and anger.
Zoe didn’t need to see any more. She didn’t feel the need to kiss Lillian’s forehead one last time; didn’t feel the need to place her hand on the waxy hand that was resting across her stomach. She felt a mix of anger and hate, and, as much as she didn’t want to admit it, regret.
Chapter 10
Sixteen-year-old Aroha Kingi s
at in her underwear on the edge of the tub in the cramped bathroom and wondered how this had happened. They’d always been so careful. She stared at the patch of mould in front of her, thinking she should probably give the bathroom a damn good clean, because who else was going to do it. Her father’s disposable razor sat to one side of the sink, black flecks littering the inside, and a blob of shaving cream had hardened to the side of the bathroom vanity. Black mould lined the edge of the bath and daddy longlegs had taken up residence in each of the four corners.
She wiped her eyes with a piece of toilet paper and sniffed. The damp, slightly rotten smell of her surroundings was making her heave. She dropped the white stick to the ground next to its innocuous foil wrapping. Five minutes ago the two blue lines had appeared, as if magicked up from her worst nightmare, and she had frozen to the spot while her life imploded. What would he say. Would he blame her? Would he be disappointed? Or, she let herself dream, just for a second, maybe he’d be happy. Maybe they could leave Crawton, a dead end at the best of times, go to Auckland and start a real life.
With a baby.
Even she could see that wasn’t going to work.
I’ll go and see Mrs Haywood.
She’d cut school most of last week and no doubt Mrs H would have something to say about that, but this was more important, and she could deal with yet another telling off if it meant she could get some help, someone else’s opinion.
Aroha’s dad would be on the road for at least another few days, and for that she was grateful. She’d got used to him working away from home, driving a truck for a supermarket chain and then spending his days off in front of the TV drinking, or down at the TAB wasting what money he earned.
At Aroha’s last meeting with Mrs Haywood over six weeks ago at school she’d seemed a bit out of it, not her normal infuriatingly positive self: ‘You can do anything you put your mind to, Aroha,’ or ‘You need to help me so I can help you,’ but she did say if she ever needed anything to call or come and see her. On the back of her business card that stated ‘Crawton High School, school counsellor’ with her office phone number and email she’d written with a hand that had a slight tremble her personal email, her home phone, her address and, cursing softly, she removed her mobile phone from her bag to write her number down, mumbling how there were too many things to remember these days — passwords, phone numbers …
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