by Murray, Lee
10:29am. Adam calls Mrs Steele at No. 16. ‘Still no news then, dear?’
10:34am. Back from his run, Grant Beckett at No. 10 works from home. The software engineer’s office is at the back of the house overlooking his garden, so although he was home last night, he didn’t see Tiffany set off for the dairy. He says please call him back if he can be of any further help.
What help? Adam thinks as he hangs up.
10:40am. Mr Wilson at No. 8 wants to talk about taggers. Apparently, even electrical transformers on the roadside aren’t exempt from their indiscriminate scribbling. Mr Wilson has a transformer outside his place that somebody decorated with graffiti yesterday. Some scoundrel, according to Mr Wilson. And they have the cheek to call it art, he said. No such thing happened in Mr Wilson’s time. The young men in his day wore ties to school, played sport and had weekend jobs on farms or in fruit shops. They were either too busy or too exhausted from packing fruit to be roaming the streets after dark vandalising community property. And no, Mr Wilson hasn’t seen Mrs Creighton.
10:55am. There’s no answer from the Johnsons at No. 9a. The unit at the rear is still unoccupied; the For Rent notice is still up on the Johnsons’ front fence.
10:58am. No answer from the Kings next door at No. 11.
11:03am. Or the Nicholsons at No. 15.
11:06am. Or the Tans at No. 19.
11:08am. Or the van Dorevans across the road at No. 12.
11:10am. It seems the van Dorevans at No. 12 are away on a ten-day holiday in Rarotonga. Adam learns this from the Reads at No. 14. The van Dorevans left last week and the Reads’ daughter Rebecca has been feeding their cat while they’re away. Mrs Read hasn’t seen Adam’s mum since the week before last when Mrs Read was out walking Baxter and the two women had stopped for a quick chat in the Creightons’ driveway, but Adam already knows this because he spoke to Mrs Read last night.
11:20am. Adam’s ear is hot and squashed, the way a naan bread must feel after being thoroughly pummelled, flattened and baked in a tandoor. He decides to take a break. He arches his back and turns his head left and right to iron out the kinks. Then he gets up and puts the kettle on while Dad fields another call from Gran.
‘Hurry up with that coffee, Adam,’ Dad says irritably when he’s off the phone from Gran. They drink it black and in long scalding swallows. Afterwards, Adam and Dad divide the remaining list in two and go back to their calling.
11:40am. Adam calls Aunty Mandy and Uncle Peri to fill them in. Aunty Mandy tells Adam that Gran called earlier. They decided Uncle Peri should head over to Ohope and check out the family bach to see if she’s turned up there. He took the ute and left not quite an hour ago. Aunty Mandy assures Adam that Uncle Peri will let everyone know when he gets there.
11:50am. Adam calls the gym.
11:53am. Hot bread shop at Cherrywood.
11:56am. Coffee shop on Chapel Street.
12:00pm. Coffee shop on 1st Avenue.
12:10pm. Coffee shop at Bethlehem Town Centre.
12:13pm. Book club President.
12:15pm. Book club Secretary—answer phone message.
12:16pm. Book club Secretary again, but at a different number.
12:22pm. Alzheimer’s Association.
12:25pm. Medical centre receptionist, followed by elevator music while Adam waits to be passed to the practice nurse, who passes Adam back to the receptionist, who finally promises to leave a message for Dr Clancey.
12:45pm. Adam makes a quick trip to the loo. On the way back, he stops at the laundry window and watches Dad putting the washing out. It’s a first. It’s weird seeing him battling with Adam’s jeans. He hangs them from the waistband. Mum always pegs them from the legs. Mum’s red long-sleeve t-shirt hangs from the shoulders, the arms dangling listlessly. Dad shakes out the last towel. Adam turns away, strangely embarrassed.
The afternoon passes in waves of calls and black coffee.
Gran phones again, and Maria. Aunty Mandy rings to tell them the bach at Ohope was empty. A planter pot on the front deck had toppled sideways, scattering dirt and bits of ceramic, but otherwise the place was undisturbed. Uncle Peri suspects the damaged pot was the work of kids, cats, or wild coastal weather.
Constable Gordon checks back to reassure them that there was no record of Adam’s mum or anyone of her description in hospital admissions. Nor had the dairy owner seen Mrs Creighton. Mr Singh suggested to police she might have gone to the service station or carried on to the supermarket for the milk. He’d locked up his store five minutes early to take his eldest daughter to a netball game, but that wasn’t until just before 7:30pm. He was the only person serving in the store last night, and he knows Mrs Creighton by sight because they’d often chatted in the past. Mr Singh thinks it unlikely Mrs Creighton would have called in without speaking to him. Detective Pūriri was following up at the supermarket.
In the late afternoon, Grandma turns up, marching up the driveway like she means business. From his position at the front window, where he’s been pacing back and forth for the past couple of hours, Dad sees her coming. He elects to head Gran off, opening the door and meeting her on the front porch. Adam follows behind at a safe distance. Clearly riled up, Gran resembles a disgruntled camel ready to spit, but Dad, operating on the principle that the best form of defence is attack, gets in the first round.
‘What are you doing here? We need you to stay at home, Wynn. What if Tiff calls you?’
Not having the advantage of the top step, Gran folds her arms across her chest.
‘I want an update. I’ve a right to know what’s going on, Phil. No one has phoned me!’
‘There’s been nothing to tell.’ Dad shifts uneasily.
‘There must be some news.’
‘There’s not.’ A pause.
Then Gran explodes. ‘I don’t believe this! Tiffany is my daughter. She wouldn’t go off without telling me,’ she huffs, hands on her hips, pointy elbows jutting at right angles. Dad raises his eyebrows, letting the moment pass.
‘Well, she has to be somewhere,’ Gran grumbles.
‘The police are doing everything they can, Wynn. Honestly. The best thing is for you to stay put in case she phones. As soon as we know anything, we’ll call you. Won’t we, Adam?’
‘Course we will, Gran,’ Adam agrees, throwing in his hang-dog look for good measure. Gran snorts.
‘Be sure that you do!’ Gran pivots to leave.
Oh no!
Mrs Steele is making her way up the front path: two hands cradling a casserole dish wrapped in a tea towel. Beside Adam, Dad takes a deep breath as Mrs Steele introduces herself to Gran.
‘Muriel Steele. I’m a neighbour. I saw the police car this morning, and they stayed such a long while, I thought I’d bring over this steak and kidney casserole. Food is the last thing we think about in these sorts of situations, isn’t it? We get so busy worrying, we forget to eat.’ To prove her point, she lifts the casserole a little higher. ‘Has there been any news about Mrs Creighton?’
In seconds, Gran has the measure of Mrs Steele. ‘Nothing yet, dear,’ Gran confides, touching Mrs Steele’s upper arm as if instead of being complete strangers, the two women have stood side by side in the same choir group for the past forty years. ‘Of course, the police are doing everything they possibly can. Very professional approach too, calling us with regular updates on their progress. It’s a comfort to know they’re being so thorough.’
Adam catches Dad’s fleeting grin, possibly the first since Mum disappeared.
‘How kind of you to bring this meal for the boys,’ Gran goes on. ‘They both enjoy a bit of steak and kidney. I would’ve cooked something myself, but as you say, I’ve been out of my mind with worry. And the police have asked me to wait by the phone in case my daughter tries to contact me.’ She drops her voice conspiratorially. ‘I don’t mind telling you, dear, I wouldn’t have left the house at all, but I needed to reassure myself that my grandson,’ she nods in Adam’s direction, ‘was bearing up. Lu
ckily, young Adam here’s a resilient boy. So far, he’s coping remarkably well. I should’ve expected it. The Norcliffs have always bred ‘em tough.’ Adam cringes. Gran loves to talk about him when he’s standing right next to her. Makes him feel like a 6-year-old. Mind you, Adam can hardly take offence as she does it to Grandpa too, and he’s 73.
‘Well, I must away,’ Gran announces. ‘Why don’t I walk you out, dear? I’m sure Adam would be pleased to drop by with your casserole dish in the next day or two...’ Grabbing the lukewarm casserole dish, Gran hands it to Adam before bustling the startled Mrs Steele away onto the street.
‘You’ve got to hand it to your Gran, Adam. She’s one slick cookie!’ Dad says in admiration when the two women are out of earshot. He turns and goes back into the house.
It’s early, but Dad makes Adam eat dinner. He says Mum’d have his guts for garters if she thought Adam wasn’t eating properly, growing boy and all that. Then Dad points out that Adam’s track coach, Riley, wouldn’t be too impressed either. Adam has to admit that’s true. His coach is forever saying conditioning is as much about nutrition as it is about training. It’s strange, but Adam feels hollow and slightly spacey. Not hungry at all. Thinking back, Adam realises that he’s eaten practically nothing all day. Sure, he’s downed buckets of coffee, but no solid food apart from a couple of bits of toast this morning.
‘It’s Reece, Dad,’ Adam corrects. He dabs a spoonful of Mrs Steele’s casserole onto his plate.
‘What’s that?’
‘My track coach. His name is Reece.’
‘Oh right, ‘course it is.’
Like everything else today, dinner drags on. Dad tries to be upbeat, but Adam can tell he isn’t fussed about Mrs Steele’s cuisine. Adam marvels at her ability to create a dish the colour of dog poo and the consistency of wallpaper paste.
‘No one ever died from eating the same meal twice,’ Dad says. This is the same dish Mum cooked last night? No way! Adam’s eyes widen in disbelief. ‘Don’t give me that look. With a bit of luck, your mother’ll be home tomorrow and we’ll get some decent tucker. Not that it isn’t nice of Mrs Steele to cook us a meal. Remember to tell her that when you take the plate back. Pity it wasn’t Mrs Tan.’ Glum, Adam nods. Mrs Tan along the road specialises in mouth-watering Asian dishes. Her steamed chicken and mushroom dumplings were a huge hit at the last neighbourhood barbecue.
Eventually, Adam’s eaten all he can stomach. He pushes the glutinous gravy around his plate in aimless swirly patterns while he waits for Dad to finish up.
‘Go on, then,’ Dad says, after a time. ‘Off you go. I’ll sort out this mess. I’ve got to make a call, anyway. See how things went at the yard...’
Adam doesn’t have to be told twice. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ he says, sloping off upstairs. In his room, Adam logs on and checks his email. His best friend Kieran is online:
KCClarke: Hey Adam? You there? [ENTER]
Awarriorx: Yep. [ENTER]
KCClarke: You missed a training session from hell. Nearly vomited. Reece says he wants us to step things up, get in three, four runs a week outside our regular weekly training night. Gave us a fricking schedule. [ENTER]
{KCClarke is typing}
KCClarke: When you didn’t turn up, I picked up yours for you, but Reece says he’s going to email you something. There’s all these boxes to tick off. Speed sessions. Gym sessions. Long runs. Hill work. He wants to see our updates so he can make sure we’re putting in the hard yards. Jase and Callum are talking about pulling out. They won’t, though. They’re just moaning. [ENTER]
{KCClarke is typing}
KCClarke: They reckon they’ve got too work much on. Who hasn’t? Every teacher in school thinks their subject should be our top priority, the centre of our universe. Like we’ve got nothing else to worry about. They don’t give a shit if you’ve already got three assignments due. [ENTER]
{KCClarke is typing}
KCClarke: By the way, Mrs Dickson gave us another English assignment: The Importance of Being Earnest. I haven’t even read the play yet. Better hope it’s on DVD. Where were you today, anyway? You actually got the flu or were you just skiving off? [ENTER]
Awarriorx: Family crisis. [ENTER]
KCClarke: What family crisis? Your pussy cat cark it or something? [ENTER]
Awarriorx: Mum’s gone missing. [ENTER]
KCClarke: No kidding! Your mum? She never goes anywhere. Where’s she gone? [ENTER]
Awarriorx: Missing. No one’s seen her. [ENTER]
KCClarke: She run off with another bloke? [ENTER]
Awarriorx: We don’t know where she is. She’s MISSING. [ENTER]
KCClarke: How long for? [ENTER]
Awarriorx: Since last night. 24 hours. [ENTER]
KCClarke: Is that all? My mum used to stay out over the weekend and leave me and my sister at home when she was dating Gary. Half the time I didn’t know whether she was going to be home or not. It was okay, actually. Gave me a bit of freedom. I had to eat a lot of takeaways, though, coz my sister is crap at cooking. The only decent thing Kayley can cook is spag bol. [ENTER]
{KCClarke is typing}
KCClarke: Now that Mum’s married to Gary, she never stays out. [ENTER]
Awarriorx: My mum isn’t dating anyone. She’s married to my dad. [ENTER]
KCClarke: She’s got to be staying somewhere, though, doesn’t she? [ENTER]
Awarriorx: Where, though? [ENTER]
KCClarke: Who knows? A friend’s maybe. Don’t worry about it. She’ll turn up. [ENTER]
Awarriorx: The police were here. [ENTER]
KCClarke: Seriously? [ENTER]
Awarriorx: Yes, seriously. No one’s seen her. She went to get some milk and didn’t come back. [ENTER]
KCClarke: That’s weird. They find anything? Clues or anything? [ENTER]
Awarriorx: Police are still looking. And we’ve been asking around. Family, neighbours, the gym. Pretty much anyone with a phone. I’m going mental. [ENTER]
KCClarke: You’re already mental. Relax. She’ll turn up. [ENTER]
Awarriorx: Hope so. [ENTER]
KCClarke: She will. People go off all the time. They come back when they’re ready. [ENTER]
Awarriorx: She just vanished, though. [ENTER]
KCClarke: Don’t worry about it. It’ll be nothing. When are you coming back to school? [ENTER]
Awarriorx: I don’t know. When Mum comes back, I guess. [ENTER]
KCClarke: You let me know what’s going on, okay? I’ll photocopy my notes for you. Your problem how you decipher my handwriting. I’ll ask Corey for his notes too if you like. [ENTER]
Awarriorx: Thanks. [ENTER]
KCClarke: You probably won’t need them. [ENTER]
Awarriorx: Yeah. Hopefully. [ENTER]
KCClarke: Call you tomorrow, okay? [ENTER]
Awarriorx: Message me. Or text. Got to keep the landline free in case Mum calls. [ENTER]
KCClarke: Okay. See ya. [ENTER]
Drained, Adam lies on his back on his bed, his feet dangling off the side. It’s only just after six o’clock but it feels later, probably because he was up half the night. He hopes Kieran is right and that Mum’ll come home when she’s ready, because he’s starting to get pretty worried now. Adam racks his brain again for an idea of where Mum could be, but can’t come up with anywhere he and Dad haven’t already called. He scrubs at his eyes.
Where is she?
According to Kieran, it’s not that unusual, people taking off on their own for a bit. Like a self-imposed time-out. But why would Mum’ve gone off on her own? And why didn’t she tell someone? Adam was home. She could’ve explained. Why make up a story about going out for milk? Sighing, Adam stares out the window as a magenta sunset bleeds slowly into grey. Maybe Mum was fed up with her life. With them. What if she was sick of picking up after him and Dad, cooking their meals, and reminding them about stuff, and the two of them not listening? Maybe she’d had enough of being a dogsbody. But even as the thought forms, Adam shakes h
is head, dismissing it. It’d take more than that to make Mum walk out. And what would be the point? If he and Dad couldn’t fathom why she’d split, then they could hardly change their ways, could they? It must’ve been something else that made her leave. Something serious.
Outside, the sun’s last rays seep away over the neighbouring rooftops and the sky turns dark.
The next morning when Adam wakes, he still has his shoes on.
Chapter 7
When Dad and Adam get home after the television broadcast, Aunty Mandy is in the kitchen, stacking the dishwasher. From behind, she looks a bit like Mum for a second. Adam’s adrenalin spikes, but too quickly his brain registers that the shape of the shoulders isn’t right, and her hair, although the right colour and texture, falls further down her back. The adrenalin withdrawal is brutal. Adam chokes back a sob.
Aunty Mandy follows them through to the lounge, drying her hands on a tea towel.
‘I watched it live on the early news. Adam, you did really, really well. Isn’t that right, Phil?’
Dad nods in agreement, ‘Yes, he did, Mandy, really well.’
‘You must be tremendously proud of the way he’s holding up these past few days. He’s been so brave throughout it all.’ Aunty Mandy’s response to all this has been to rabbit on and on, as if incessant talking would fill up the space that used to be occupied by Mum. She arrived on the second day and set up camp in the spare room, the one Dad pretends to use as a home office. Adam supposes it’s been good, really. They couldn’t have gone out otherwise. Dad needed to check in at the dealership, and Adam had to take back Mrs Steele’s empty casserole dish. Who would’ve manned the phone?
Mum might’ve called.
Aunty Mandy had installed herself as their in-house secretary: fielding calls, deflecting the media, calling friends and neighbours, heating up curries and cottage pies the neighbours had dropped in, and making a million cups of insipid tea, not like the stiff brew Mum prefers.