Misplaced

by Murray, Lee

  ‘No, I’ll admit your situation is unusual, but you’d be surprised at some of the difficulties faced by students in this school. Students, like you, who are carrying on with their lives, trying to make the best of their opportunities in spite of their troubles.’

  Adam grunts.

  Turning his back to Adam, Mr Penny faces the playing field. He’s quiet for a minute, as if trying to decide what to say next. After a time, he says, ‘Adam, do you remember a couple of years ago a boy at this school lost several members of his family in a house fire?’ Adam draws in his breath. Everybody knows about that fire. It was in all the newspapers. Three people had died in the blaze. Afterwards, there’d been a huge blitz on installing smoke detectors in homes and some local hardware stores had run out of stock. Mr Penny goes on. ‘The boy himself was badly burned and spent several months in hospital. When he came out, his family was still struggling to cope with the tragedy and for a time he had to go into foster care. Don’t you think he asked himself what was the point of school? Like you, I imagine he felt like giving up too. Instead, he began having regular sessions with Mrs Paine. I understand he found those sessions very helpful. The young man in question is no longer at our school, but I’m pleased to say he’s recovering well, and he’s determined not to let the fire ruin his future.’

  Suddenly, Adam feels enormously tired. Bone tired. He could sleep forever right here in the stands. He closes his eyes, buries his face in his hands, and blows out the breath he’s been holding.

  ‘So you see, you’re not the only one,’ Mr Penny goes on. ‘There are kids here from broken homes or in foster care, kids whose family members have died in car crashes or accidents or whose parents are in prison. Some of our students have been physically assaulted, not just once, but repeatedly. We’ve got one or two recovering from drug abuse...’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’

  ‘I said okay, I’ll talk to the counsellor.’ If only to shut him up. Hearing about all those other poor bastards is enough to do Adam’s head in.

  ‘Good fellow,’ Mr Penny says, standing up and brushing off his trousers. On the field, the PE teacher is gathering the red sashes. It’s nearly the end of third period. ‘Come along.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes, now. I believe Mrs Paine has a free period.’

  Adam hoists his backpack onto his shoulder and follows Mr Penny as he navigates his way down the stands and heads past the squash courts to K-Block. The counsellor’s office is the first on the left.

  Mr Penny knocks quietly before opening the door. ‘Mrs Paine. I have Adam Creighton here to see you. I’ll speak to Adam’s teachers and make his excuses for the rest of the afternoon. Right then, in you go, Adam. I’ll leave you in Mrs Paine’s capable hands.’

  The college guidance counsellor is a weight-loss advertisement—the before kind.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ she motions with a meaty arm. ‘Why don’t you pop your bag over there under the window and come and have a seat?’ The door closes behind Mr Penny. ‘Let me guess. Mr Penny browbeat you into coming.’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Thought so. He’s rather lovely, really.’ Adam pulls a doubtful face. ‘Just so we’re clear, Adam, you have no obligation to confide in me.’

  ‘I don’t really want to talk about Mum.’

  ‘As I said, you’re perfectly at liberty to cope with things on your own. However, if you don’t have an appointment with me, Mr Penny will expect you to attend class.’

  ‘That’s blackmail.’

  She nods knowingly. ‘Yes, I find it quite handy at times. So, what will it be?’

  ‘It’s Physics, so I’ll stay.’

  ‘Excellent. I knew you would, of course. Students invariably choose me over Physics. It’s a strange phenomenon really. Anything else—Drama, or Art or even Classics—they tend not to stick around. But, for some reason, there’s no contest with Physics. So why don’t we make this our weekly appointment time? That doesn’t mean you can’t see me at other times. If you come by and my door is open, you’re welcome to drop in for a natter. Or fill in your name on the sign-up sheet. Naturally, everything said here is confidential. You okay with all that?’

  ‘Well, I’m okay with missing Physics.’ Mrs Paine smiles and Adam notices that underneath the thick layer of adipose, she’s probably quite pretty.

  ‘Okay, let’s get started, shall we? Firstly, are you eating?’

  ‘Am I eating? I thought this was going to be about my emotional state? Whether I’m cracking up or not. Given that my mum seems to have fallen off the face of the earth.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll get to that, eventually. For the moment, I’d like to know if your physical health is compromised. Because if it is, then it becomes much harder for you to cope with the things that life is throwing at you. So, back to my first question: are you eating?’

  ‘Yes. To start with, some of the neighbours helped out with meals, one-pot dinners like cottage pie and lasagne. Not long after, my Aunty Mandy came and since then she’s been doing the cooking and helping with calls and stuff. She’s going home today. Dad and I can’t wait to see the back of her. Don’t get me wrong, she’s nice and everything, even filled the freezer for us, but something about her being there...’ He trails off.

  ‘Hmm. It sounds to me as if you’ve been eating fairly well. What about sleep? Have you been getting a full night’s sleep?’

  ‘I guess.’

  Mrs Paine says nothing. Just looks at him.

  ‘Okay, no. Not really.’

  Mrs Paine tilts her head, waiting for him to go on, to fill in the spaces. It’s a shrink thing, a Jedi Mind Trick to make you spill your guts. Adam knows she’s doing it, but he can’t seem to resist.

  ‘If you must know, I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since she went missing. I might’ve managed one night total.’

  ‘Hmm. One night total.’

  ‘I’ve tried to sleep, but I don’t know, it’s as if my mind won’t shut down. I can’t help it. I just lie there thinking things, going over and over stuff, trying to sort it all out, you know. Wondering where she could be. I’m that tired half the time I’ve got a monster headache and the rest of the time I’m a walking zombie.’ Mrs Paine springs up. For a big woman, she’s surprisingly light on her feet.

  ‘Adam, stop right there. Stand up now.’ What? What did I say? ‘I want you to march yourself over to that couch, lie yourself down and pull that blanket over you. I’ve some work to do in the room next door and in the meantime you will have a nap. I’ll check on you in an hour.’

  ‘Mrs Paine, I can’t. It’s daytime.’ The guidance counsellor answers him by tilting the blinds, blocking out the daylight.

  ‘And you desperately need some sleep, young man.’ Her hand is already on the doorknob.

  ‘But...’

  ‘Sleep, Adam.’ The way she says it brokers no argument. It’s the tone mothers use.

  ‘I...’

  She turns. ‘Adam. Let me just ask you one thing. What were you expecting to do in Physics?’

  ‘Nap?’

  Mrs Paine smiles. ‘Exactly.’

  Chapter 12

  After school, feeling less like a zombie and more like a human being after his nap on Mrs Paine’s banquette, Adam decides to drive over and visit Grandpa. It’s been a couple of weeks since he’s seen him. He tosses his backpack in the boot of Mum’s car. Actually, that’s just a family joke. Mum has never had her own car. As a fringe benefit, she’s always driven a demo model from the yard. Dad changes it every eight weeks or so which keeps the mileage down. This latest one’s a Mazda 2, zippy, and with brakes more sensitive than a dog’s nose. It’s a girly colour though—turquoisey-blue. Mum had liked the colour. It reminded her of holidays and freshly washed table linen. The same blue her bridesmaids wore.

  ‘Do you remember, Phil? So summery!’

  She’d even hinted to Dad that she wouldn’t mind keeping this car. Dad
had snorted at that, grumbling about the recession and how money doesn’t grow on bloody trees. Slipping into a park at Resthaven and ratcheting the brake, Adam figures the car is his to drive—for the moment anyway.

  Adam stops by the office to sign his name in the register. At Resthaven, they like people to sign in and out every time they come: OSH regulations. And last year there’d been a spate of petty burglaries with some of the residents losing jewellery, money and even a personal television. Adam thought that was bold: walking out of a busy retirement home with a television under your arm. After that last affront, the residents’ families had clamoured for better procedures, so the rest home had installed surveillance cameras and insisted every visitor sign in and out, whether they were known to the staff or not.

  Adam scans the page, examining the names of today’s visitors. Gran was here earlier: looks like she had lunch with Grandpa. Adam has a thought. He flicks back to the beginning of the month and starts checking through the entries, looking for Mum’s name. Running his finger down the pages, he finds it occurs every day, alongside her signature and the times she arrived and departed, mostly late morning. She even dropped by and saw Grandpa that Wednesday, the day she disappeared, but after that—Adam checks the entries line by line—nothing.

  Disappointed, he signs himself in and weaves his way through the labyrinth to Grandpa’s room at the back of the complex, assailed as always by the smell of coddled milk and disinfectant. The room is empty. Bereft, Grandpa’s unread newspaper waits on the candlewick bedspread, the way school play equipment waits for kids to come out at Interval. The bathroom door is closed and, thinking Grandpa might be in there, Adam knocks.

  ‘Grandpa?’

  ‘Oh hello, Adam!’ Mrs Kirkham calls out as she passes by the open door. ‘If you’re looking for your Grandpa, I think I know where he might be. Some of the boys were out in the garden playing bowls after lunch, and afterwards I heard one of the caregivers mention that John was going to have his afternoon tea in the conservatory. I’ll walk you there.’

  ‘That’s okay, I know the way.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble. I’m going that way.’ Adam falls in beside the Centre Manager. About the same age as Mum, Mrs Kirkham is more your twinset and pearls type. Dressed today in a blue skirt and oyster-coloured blouse, she isn’t actually wearing pearls, but Mrs Kirkham’s not the sort Adam could picture slouching around in jeans. Too proper. Like the Queen.

  ‘That bowls match!’ Mrs Kirkham exclaims, as she leads Adam along the corridor. ‘Anyone would think it was the World Championship Tournament. Those boys do take their bowls seriously.’ Adam thinks it’s funny the way Mrs Kirkham calls the men who live here boys, as if they were a bunch of wilfully mischievous children. In their seventies and eighties, and with one resident well into his nineties, those ‘boys’ are around twice her age. Apparently, you’re never too old for a bit of mothering.

  ‘So, who won?’ Adam asks, running his fingertips along the hall’s continuous handrail as he walks.

  Mrs Kirkham stops for a moment and smiles. ‘You know, I don’t know.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Adam says, as they round the corner. ‘By now half of them won’t remember either.’

  ‘You’re right, it doesn’t matter. They had such a lot fun standing around in the sunshine arguing about whose ball is the closest, calling for do-overs. They even had the audacity to come in and pinch a ball of wool from one of the ladies. Comparing distances, they said! They’ve had a lovely day. And if the weather stays fine, I expect they’ll replay the entire tournament tomorrow.’

  They’ve almost reached the conservatory now. Adam slows to a dawdle, not quite ready to see Grandpa yet. Sensing Adam has something to say, Mrs Kirkham slows too.

  ‘Everything okay, Adam?’

  ‘Mrs Kirkham, does Grandpa know about Mum?’

  She purses her lips for an instant, her fingers clutching at non-existent pearls, then says: ‘I think so, love. You know, your grandpa still likes to flick through the newspaper. Mainly he reads the headlines and looks at the photographs—he wouldn’t be able to follow the gist of a lengthy article—but they’ve printed your mother’s photograph a lot lately, that one of her on the beach. I’m sure he’s recognised her.’

  ‘What about Gran? Do you know if she’s told him?’ Another pause. Mrs Kirkham seems to weigh up whether she should say more. Eventually, Adam detects a small shrug of her shoulders.

  ‘Yes, she has. Your gran doesn’t believe in keeping anything from your grandpa.’ She shifts her weight uneasily. ‘You have to understand, Adam, in cases like John’s where there’s severe memory impairment, the jury’s out about how best to approach this kind of thing. Some people think we should hold back information that could be upsetting to the patient. I believe your gran kept Tiffany’s disappearance from John in those first few days. It was still early on, and everyone was hopeful your mother might still be found. Of course, we still do hope she’ll be found. But as time’s gone on, your gran felt John should know. She said she hadn’t lied to her husband their entire married life and she wasn’t about to start now.’ Mrs Kirkham sighs deeply and Adam wonders if the Centre Manager doesn’t entirely approve of Gran’s decision. With short, clipped nails, she runs her hands down her skirt, smoothing out the pleats. ‘It does make it very hard for your gran though, having to explain the situation over and over. So, in answer to your question, yes, deep down your grandpa does know that your mum is missing. But that doesn’t mean he always remembers.’ Adam nods thoughtfully.

  Mrs Kirkham claps her hands together. ‘Ready?’

  They turn into the conservatory. West facing, the room takes full advantage of the afternoon sun. Seated at a card table, Grandpa’s face is a picture of concentration. He’s bent over a Rush Hour game-board, his attention and his fingers lingering on an orange 3-square truck as he tries to figure out his next move. Although he spends hours playing the game, these days Grandpa rarely manages to get the little ambulance through the traffic.

  Sweeping into the sun-filled room, Mrs Kirkham says, ‘Look who we have here to see you, John. It’s your grandson, Adam, come for a visit.’ She tips Grandpa forward while she talks, her voice running up and down the scale as she plumps the cushions behind him.

  ‘You know what I think I’ll do, John? I think I’ll have the girls bring you and Adam a cup of tea. Some biscuits, perhaps. That way, you two boys can have a chat. I’m counting on you to find out what Adam’s been up to—all the juicy gossip—and tell me later.’ Not for the first time, Adam is impressed with the way Resthaven staff members announce a guest—their name and their relationship to the resident—and then suggest a plan for the visit. Adam used to think it was for Grandpa’s benefit, but as time has gone on and Grandpa’s Alzheimer’s has worsened, Adam suspects it’s more about softening the agony for the visitor when their friend or family member doesn’t recognise them.

  ‘I’ll leave you boys to it now,’ Mrs Kirkham informs them. ‘But I’m trusting you lads not to flirt with the ladies when they bring through the tea.’ She winks at Adam, then nips away.

  Grandpa guffaws, tickled by Mrs Kirkham’s parting comment. Adam pulls up an armchair. ‘Hello, Grandpa. How are you getting on there?’

  ‘Oh good, good. Stuck on this piece.’ He waves the orange truck in Adam’s direction. ‘Have you played this game? It’s called Rush Hour. And tricky! I haven’t managed to work the blasted thing out yet.’ Resigned, he replaces the truck in the game board.

  ‘So, how are you then?’ Grandpa asks. Adam’s not sure if Grandpa recognises him today. Some days he does, while other times it’s clear he hasn’t the faintest. But he’s an expert bluffer and always does his best to hold a conversation.

  ‘I’m fine, Grandpa. Back at school now. Ōtūmoetai College. This is my last year.’

  ‘Back at school? You been off crook?’

  ‘No, it’s not that Grandpa. I’ve just... I’ve been a bit run down, that’s all. But I’m
back at school now.’

  ‘Uh-huh. So, how’s school going? Remind me what you’re taking again.’

  ‘The usual boring stuff: Maths, English, French...’

  ‘French? Did you know I took French at school?’ Adam knows it. This is one of Grandpa’s favourite stories. It’s one of the weird things about Alzheimer’s: Grandpa often has vivid memories from way back in his past, from his school days or when he first got married, as if those early memories are super-glued to his consciousness. On the other hand, what he did ten minutes ago eludes him, peeling away as easily as a Post-it note. Grandpa goes on with his story. ‘We had two French Masters at school. One was from that poncy college in Paris... I forget the name...’

  ‘The Sorbonne.’

  ‘That’s it! So anyway, one French Master came from the Sorbonne. My brother had him. All proper, his French was. I had the other Master. He was from Marseilles, so I learned the French of the Marseilles’ gutters.’ As always, Grandpa draws out those last words in his version of the Master’s twangy southern French accent. Adam knows what’s coming next. Grandpa will recite the first few lines of the two essays he learned by heart in order to pass the 1953 School Certificate examination. There’s one about the coronation of Queen Elizabeth and another about Sir Edmund Hillary conquering Everest. Adam doesn’t mind. In the beginning it used to frustrate him, but now he’s got used to Grandpa repeating himself over and over. In a way, it’s comforting. And as long as Grandpa can still recount these familiar stories, it means he’s holding his own, staving off the disease.

  ‘Mrs Kirkham tells me you played in a bowls tournament earlier,’ Adam says, when Grandpa has finished his recitation.

  ‘Did I? Bowls? I don’t remember.’

  ‘Apparently, a bunch of the residents organised a game. It’s not important if you don’t remember.’

  ‘I remember my wife came,’ Grandpa says.

  ‘Yes, I saw Gran’s name on the visitors’ list when I came in. She dropped in around lunch time. Probably had lunch with you.’