The Prodigal Sister: An emotional drama of family secrets

by Laura Elliot

  The hushed night remained undisturbed. Where there was turbulence there is now silence, apart from a faint droning snore from Julie. Lauren hopes her dreams are gentle. Afraid of disturbing her sisters, she climbs down from her bunk and makes her way towards the fridge. Magazines and brochures are scattered over the table. Underwear hangs from rails and the backs of chairs. Her sunglasses lie on the floor beside her beach bag. She pours cranberry juice into a glass and drinks deeply. There are moments when the experience of being alive is a strumming, quivering relief. Her mother looked so real. Warm enough to hug. The familiar slacks with the baggy knees. The old leather boots, clay moulded into the soles. Etchings of a life ended too soon.

  Wide awake and with all the signs of insomnia in place, she feels the atmosphere in the camper thickening. Moving as silently as possible, she pulls on a pair of trousers and a jacket, locates her mobile phone and a torch.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Julie whispers, her arm dangling over the edge of her bunk.

  ‘It’s suffocating in here. I’m going outside for some air.’

  ‘Be careful. Take your gloves…it’s cold…’

  The residue of the nightmare still clings to Lauren as she leaves the holiday park and walks towards the lake shore. She finds a sheltered bench underneath a tree and sits down, waits for the phone to ring.

  ‘Where are you now?’ Steve asks.

  ‘Queenstown. We arrived this afternoon. I’m sitting in the moonlight beside a lake.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘I could be the only person left alive on this island.’

  ‘No toy boy.’

  She remains silent. Lately, his jokes have a cutting edge, as if he wants to diminish the age gap between them with remarks about anti-ageing creams and toy boys.

  ‘I’m only joking, Lauren. Where’s your sense of humour?’

  He chuckles indulgently. She imagines him at his desk, his spiky iron-grey hair and tough, forceful chin. He must be drinking coffee; she hears him sip and swallow. He drinks it black and strong, without sugar.

  ‘Have your sisters thrown in the towel yet?’ he asks when she makes no reply.

  ‘They’re thriving on the outdoor life, especially Rebecca.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m coping.’

  ‘Trekking through the wilderness is not exactly your style, princess. Another two days and you’ll be begging for room service.’

  ‘I’m not exactly made of cotton wool, Steve.’

  ‘Pure Dresden, princess, and stream-lined for luxury. I’m sorry I’m not sitting in the moonlight beside you but things are a bit difficult at the moment.’

  She forces herself to concentrate on what he is saying. Something about the Wallslowe deal and an argument with an investor.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she asks.

  ‘One or two glitches that I need to keep an eye on. Apart from that—’

  ‘What kind of glitches?’ Alarm clutches her voice, raises it into an anxious question. Boom to gloom, riches to rags; the media’s coverage of the global economic downturn was unrelenting before she left. She is glad to be away from the constant reports, the grim predictions, the closures, the anger, the political wrangling and bitter accusations.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head over.’ He calms her fear. Of course there will be glitches. No property deal worth millions will flow without problems surfacing at some point. But Steve is canny and experienced, tough in negotiations, hard-headed when challenged, and, ultimately, always successful in acquiring what he desires. He will come through this recession, just as he did during the difficult eighties when they met for the first time.

  Lauren has no recollection of their meeting which took place at her parents’ funeral. How could she, a child of twelve, remember a man in his forties? But, in time, she came to visualise the scene he described and–honed from his own memories of the occasion–she took them as her own, allowing them to replace the blank space in her mind whenever she tries to recall that day. What a huddle the Lambert sisters must have made, mud on their shoes, black berets glistening with rain. She was in a wheelchair, briefly allowed out of hospital, eyes bruised, the taste of nettles still in her mouth. Steve said she looked beautiful even then. He wanted to hold her safe. To banish for ever the terror in her eyes.

  After his phone call ends, she stays in the same position, reluctant to return to the cloying heat of the camper. Shot through with silver, Lake Wakatipu traps the moon’s reflection and eddies it gently along the surface. The wind, blowing stronger, keens between the mountain clefts but she has moved far beyond this mountainous landscape and is kneeling barefoot in a crowded temple, the scent of joss sticks in her nostrils. His presence strumming towards her across the curious, the worshipping, the oblivious crowds. She should have known it would be impossible to fly close to the flame and not singe her wings.

  She whispers his name. Niran. In Thai, he told her, it means Eternal. She behaved like a whore in his arms. No, she corrects herself. A whore would feel no pleasure in such brief stolen encounters. Her body clenches in the grip of remembered pleasure. When they met again in Christchurch, he told her about his holiday home. He called it ‘his crib’. He is there now, composing his music. Outside his window, the waves roll like thunder over driftwood sands, froth and foam and spinning force.

  He drew a map with directions that she should follow.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said when he handed it to her. ‘It’s impossible.’ But she took it from him, determined to tear it up as soon as she was alone.

  She reaches into the pocket of her trousers and touches the folded paper. Too dark to see the marked directions but she does not need light to see the curving bends and distinctive X. She has checked Rebecca’s itinerary. They will travel along the West Coast. Jackson Bay is not included.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Queenstown is a brash and bold, adrenalin-pumping city that challenges the fibre of a person’s courage. Rebecca’s itinerary includes a lake cruise, a Lord of the Rings tour, white-water rafting and bungee jumping, which they will do today from the Kawarau Gorge. This experience, according to Rebecca, who has bungee jumped in Colorado and Chile, will be the highlight of their trip.

  On reaching the gorge, she strides towards the jump station with the confidence of one who had fallen into a void and survived to tell the tale. Julie, never one to shirk an adrenalin rush, looks equally self-assured as she jokes with Rick, their instructor. Tall and muscular, in denim shorts and a red bandana, Rick projects the brisk authority of a kindergarten teacher welcoming his latest batch of terrified toddlers.

  ‘OK, you guys,’ Rick says. ‘Ready for action?’

  Lauren’s legs begin to tremble when she looks down on the thin line of the Kawarau River rushing blue and dangerously between the rocks. Rebecca is the first to venture forward.

  ‘Latex,’ Rick grins, when she enquires about the strength of the bungee cord. ‘It’s strong enough to keep the condom industry in profit and the global population under control.’

  ‘Absolute rubbish,’ Julie quips. ‘How the hell do you think Jonathan came on the scene? We’ve never trusted—’

  ‘Shut up!’ her sisters shriek in unison.

  Lashed in Velcro, dangling on latex, Rebecca drops like a brick over the edge.

  ‘Goodbye, cruel world,’ she screeches, the sound torn silent by wind and speed.

  Julie and Lauren move to the edge of the platform. Far below, the river is an inaudible roar. Lauren imagines its power slamming against her chest, her body, randomly tossed on the raging current.

  ‘One, two, three…’Rick begins the countdown. Hesitating increases the risk of dropping out, he advises Lauren when she takes a step backwards.

  She sinks to her knees, her green eyes sludgy with terror.

  ‘I was just as terrified the first time I did it.’ Rick, no longer teasing, kneels beside her. ‘It’s perfectly safe and the sensation is absolutely fantastic.
You’ll be on a high for days afterwards.’

  Lauren is unable to look away from the glaciated gorge. The face…how can he not see the face? She watches the tortured features from her nightmare emerge. The chiselled eyebrows and bulbous eyes ready to blind her with their terrifying stare. She blinks her long dark eyelashes but still the face remains, and the river, no longer inaudible, roars with pent-up violence in her ears. Her chest tightens. She rocks backwards and forwards and presses her hands to her eyes. Rick, realising that her fear is as deep as the gorge below, persuades her to her feet. He opens the Velcro fastenings. She sways when she hears the abrasive texture separating. He holds her upright as her knees give way again.

  ‘It happens.’ He shrugs, grins good-naturedly. ‘Perhaps, another day.’

  ‘I’m sorry…sorry…’ Her voice trails away.

  Down below, Rebecca has been taken aboard an inflatable raft. Lauren whimpers as another body hurtles into a swan dive and disappears.

  ‘You go,’ she says to Julie. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘I’ll bring you back to the camper first. Come on, hold on to my arm.’

  Lauren fixes her gaze firmly to the front as Julie helps her, step by careful step, across the suspension bridge. When they reach the camper Lauren collapses into a chair.

  ‘New Zealand is not exactly the best country to discover you have a problem with vertigo,’ Julie says.

  ‘I thought…I thought I’d just keep falling.’ Her cheeks are clammy. Perspiration trickles along her spine.

  Julie takes bottled water from the fridge and hands her a glass. ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Better.’ Lauren walks to the open door, gulps in deep breaths of air. Rebecca returns, hyper with excitement, and shows them the photograph that was taken when she went over the edge, bulging eyes, her mouth wide open in a whipped-away scream. She fits into this landscape, is thriving on the hurtling, adrenalin-pumping activities it offers. The sense of space overpowers Lauren. She is used to city noises, coffee-bar conversations, the swish of carrier bags, the confines of tall secure buildings. Here there is no containment. Nothing to break the isolation that will descend on her if she falters for an instant. She steps outside. The air is cool on her cheeks. She stares beyond the clumps of thyme and scabweed, the tussocks of wild grass and jutting boulders, the dead trees, silver-flamed and jutting like arrows above the bracken.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  On their third day in Queenstown, Julie and Lauren rebel and demand a day off. Julie wants to do nothing more demanding than turning the pages of a book. Lauren is in dire need of a facial and a manicure. Rebecca sticks to her itinerary and heads off on her own to explore Arrowtown’s gold-mining past.

  After her sisters depart, Julie heaves a sigh of relief. Before she can relax, she restores order to the camper. Despite her best efforts to keep it tidy, underwear dries on lines slung across the shower cubicle, make-up, shower gel, tampons, magazines, towels, swimsuits, road maps, empty wine bottles and Lauren’s overflowing ashtray seem to manifest themselves over every available space. She works quickly and efficiently. Soon, shining surfaces and neatly made-up bunks have replaced the chaos her sisters left in their wake.

  She showers and changes into fresh shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. She sits on the steps of the camper with her book and a glass of wine. A camper van reverses into the empty bay beside her. Teenage boys erupt from the open door. Their raucous laughter sounds like a familiar melody. A heavy-set man emerges and begins to connect electricity.

  ‘How’s the trip going?’ he calls across to her.

  ‘Wonderful so far,’ she replies. ‘How about you?’

  He scratches his arm, grins. She recognises his Belfast accent. ‘Apart from the sand flies. The wee fuckers have bitten me to bits.’ His buttocks loom alarmingly from his shorts every time he bends over to connect the water and electricity, and his legs are ringed with bite blotches. Paul has kept his lean figure. Apart from a slight thinning of hair on his crown and deeper lines around his eyes and mouth, she can still see the man she married. She places her wine on the step and closes the book. Time that once had wings has slowed to a snail’s pace and she does not know what to do with it. The longing to ring her sons, to send a text, overwhelms her. They are sleeping on the other side of the world. The rain is probably falling, the broken garden shed door slapping to and fro. The time difference adds to her sense of separation. They can not even think about her at the same time as she is thinking about them.

  Paul rings each night and makes her absence sound like an accusation. Why is he having difficulty accessing essential files on her system? Where has she left the VAT returns? What about the pay roll? How can he get Aidan to study without holding a gun to his head? Why are his sons intent on breaking the sound barrier when all he has the energy to do is sink into a coma when he comes home from work?

  Julie stands up and checks the camper. Spotless. She checks the food supply. Milk and fresh bread are needed. The supermarket is only a short walking distance from the camper park. She browses among the shelves, examines the blue fish, asks questions about how it should be cooked, then moves on to the vegetable counter, pauses to survey a mound of sweet potatoes. They call them kumaras in New Zealand. She picks up a publicity recipe for kumara and mussel chowder. She debates trying it tonight…but all those green-lipped mussels, so much bigger than the ones at home, not to mention debearding them…maybe some other occasion. She stops at the fruit section, checks the juiciness of mangoes and grapes, tests the pliability of avocados, compares the prices to those in her local supermarket.

  A teenager walks past. Despite the heat, she wears a military jacket with medals and numerous quirky badges adorning the front. Her skirt trails the floor and her hair, dyed a luminous green, is as spiked as an iguana’s spine. She is every mother’s nightmare, thinks Julie, and every individualist’s dream. Tears well in her eyes and roll down her cheeks.

  ‘Dear me.’ An elderly woman with pink candyfloss hair pauses. ‘Are you all right, child?’

  Julie pulls her sunglasses over her eyes and nods. ‘I’m fine. It’s just…happiness.’ She pushes her trolley onwards, sobbing to the vacuous strains of tranquillity music. Outside, the sun is shining. Birds are singing. People are paragliding, white-water rafting, hacking through glaciers, hanging above a gorge by their ankles. That’s a definition of happiness, not wandering through the aisles of a supermarket. What has happened to her? What has she become? She searches for a tissue in the pocket of her shorts. Unable to find one, she grabs a plastic bag from a roll and rubs her eyes. The candyfloss woman catches up with her at the bread counter. ‘Pray to the Good Lord, child. He will not turn his eyes from you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Without looking right or left, apart from the herbal counter where she flings a bottle of St John’s Wort into the trolley–excellent for depression, according to a health magazine she read–Julie heads for the checkout.

  Her footsteps drag as she climbs the hilly road back to the holiday park. Gondolas, journeying to the summit of Bob’s Peak, hover like bees above the beech forests. She stops under the trees, her head bent as if searching for pennies among the weeping willows.

  A Jeep is parked outside the camper. Tim Dawson lounges in a deck chair. He waves when he sees her and rises.

  ‘We meet again.’ He is a big man, hulky, and his beard is bushy enough to hide nesting birds.

  ‘How are you?’ he asks.

  She holds up a bag of groceries. ‘Apart from the occasional cathartic experience, I’m fine. Rebecca’s not here, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh.’ His smiles fades.

  ‘She’s panning for gold in Arrowtown. I’m expecting her back soon. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘I could skull a beer.’ He sits down again and accepts a bottle, cold from the fridge. ‘Choice.’ He takes a long swig. ‘This’ll wash out the dust of the road.’

  Julie pours a glass of wine and sits beside him. ‘I thought we w
ere to meet you in Te Anau?’

  ‘I decided to take off early.’

  ‘Did you now?’ She grins at him. ‘We bought six copies of the Southern Eye. Nice photo.’

  ‘Nice subject.’

  ‘She thinks your book is a mine of useful information.’

  ‘What else does she say about me?’

  ‘Not a lot, to be honest…apart from the frog.’

  ‘The Hochstetter’s.’

  ‘That’s the one. She’s been trying to recognise one. No luck so far.’

  ‘Is she married?’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘Divorced?’

  ‘Widowed. What about you?’ Julie studies the man lolling beside her, his sturdy brown ankles crossed, a pair of shabby boots that look as if they have trampled across many miles of wild terrain.

  ‘Divorced. Six years since I last eyeballed my ex-wife.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need. She preferred the city. I like open spaces. Irreconcilable differences.’

  ‘My husband and I have never had a chance to find out if we have irreconcilable differences.’

  ‘You’re lucky.’

  ‘No. Just too busy.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Three boys. The eldest is nineteen. We call him the honeymoon baby.’

  ‘You were a child bride.’ His attempt at flattery pleases her.

  ‘Nineteen and very pregnant.’

  ‘Ah.’ He tilts his head back and finishes the bottle.

  She hands him a second bottle, tops up her own glass. ‘A year later we had another son and then Aidan, the youngest, came along.’

  ‘You’ve been a busy lady.’

  She nods, warns herself to stop talking. One glass of wine and she turns into Mrs Motor Mouth. ‘I miss my family like crazy yet I couldn’t wait to get away from them. Perhaps that’s an irreconcilable contradiction. Does your wife still live in Christchurch?’