by Murray, Lee
‘Skye, if you’re pregnant, please just tell me,’ he says.
‘No, silly! Just come over.’ Adam’s pulse drops back into double digits. Thank God!
At the flat, Skye pulls him inside, closing the door quickly behind them.
‘Did Mrs Cowens see you come up?’ she says, worried. ‘I don’t want her ratting us out. Aroha didn’t actually say I couldn’t have anyone over, but technically...’ Adam pulls her into a hug.
‘Hey, I’ve missed you, too.’ It’s true. Ever since that day at the track, every hour he’s away from Skye feels like a century. After a week without her, he feels like a carded test player, five minutes to play and the scores even. Skye melts perfectly into his embrace, her apple-scented hair tickling his nose.
‘So, did she see you?’ Skye asks again, her breath on his neck.
‘She didn’t have to see me. I parked the Mazda out front. She has to know it’s mine by now.’
Skye pulls away. ‘Oh shoot! I forgot about that.’
‘But I don’t think she’ll say anything,’ Adam adds quickly. ‘Don’t forget, she’s the one who signed your passport photo—effectively makes her an accomplice.’
Skye brightens. ‘Good point!’ she says. They make their way into the lounge and sit side-by-side on the sofa.
‘So Aroha’s still pretty mad, huh?’ Adam says, giving her a nudge.
Skye props her feet up on the coffee table and picks at some fluff on the leg of her jeans. ‘Not really. Not since that big barny that first night. I think she was more frightened than anything else. She knows she can trust me, really. She just doesn’t want me to make the same mistakes she did. We’ve had some serious heart-to-hearts over the past week. About my dad, and about you.’
‘About me?’
‘She said you came to see her at work.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Well, what did she say?’ Skye says, walking her fingers up the sleeve of his shirt.
Adam lifts his chin haughtily. ‘She said you’re crazy about me.’
‘Ha!’ Skye cuffs him with a cushion.
‘Ow! Get off.’ It doesn’t take Adam long to gain the upper hand, wrestling Skye down on the sofa, her arms pinned above her head. ‘Okay, cough up. What did you tell her about me?’
Skye stops fighting, her green eyes open wide. ‘I told her you cared enough about me to spend all your savings on our trip and, because of that, you might not be able to go to university.’ Adam lets her go. He sits up.
‘Don’t worry about it. Dad and I worked out a deal. I promised to be nice to Marilyn and work my arse off at the yard all summer and in return he’s going to stump up with my fees.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, he’s not so bad.’ And neither is Marilyn, although it would take an army to force that admission out of Adam.
‘Hey, that reminds me. Hang on a sec.’ Skye ducks into her room and comes out flapping a sheaf of photocopied pages. ‘Look here. I didn’t see this before. I can apply for an undergraduate scholarship to study at Massey. It turns out I’m eligible for quite a few. I’ve been filling out the forms this week while I’ve been at home. And you know all the extra time Aroha’s been putting in at the store? Her boss has asked her to apply for a promotion. If she gets it, Aroha thinks she’ll be able to help me out, too.’ She beams.
‘Skye, that’s great!’
She wraps her arms around herself. ‘I know. I’m happy. I really want to go to university. I want the chance Aroha didn’t have. I want to make something of my life.’
They’re quiet for a moment, and it occurs to Adam that they’re not so different.
‘Are you sorry we went looking for Whitworth?’
Skye fans herself with the scholarship papers. ‘Nah, not really. I’m sorry he turned out to be a dork, but at least I’ve met him, so now I don’t have any silly illusions.’
Adam jumps when the doorbell rings. Adam panics for a second, then realises that Aroha would have her own key.
‘It’ll be Corey and Kieran. I asked them to come over.’ Skye scoots off to open the door.
Adam follows her as far as the kitchen. He perches himself on the same stool he did the day Skye practically mummified him. Seems like ages ago. There’s a new apple fundraising grid stuck to the fridge. Alongside it, the old one has two remaining spaces.
Emerging from the hall first, Kieran smirks. ‘What’s up, lover boy?’ He gives Adam a playful punch on the shoulder.
But Adam doesn’t get to answer because the minute she’s in the room, Skye rounds on Kieran. ‘Right, Kieran Clarke. What do you have to say for yourself?’ she says, hands on her hips.
‘About what?’
‘About what? About the fact you told Pūriri that Adam and I were in Australia.’
‘I...’
‘Don’t try and deny it!’ She throws Kieran a look that is pure Hermione Granger. ‘The only people who knew about it were you and Donna, and she swears she didn’t tell anyone. Because of you, I’ve been grounded for half the holidays. Aroha’s making me show her my study timetable every day. I’m going out of my tree here!’
‘Come on, Skye,’ Corey intervenes. ‘Kieran couldn’t very well say nothing. It was the police asking.’
Skye throws her hands up. ‘Well, couldn’t he have exercised his right to remain silent?’
‘It was the police!’ Kieran protests. ‘I thought they might have found Adam’s mum.’
‘Skye, we can’t blame Kieran. Pūriri can be pretty sharp,’ Adam says.
‘And Kieran here can be pretty dense,’ says Corey.
‘I know,’ Skye sighs. ‘It’s just—I’ve never been grounded before. I hate being stuck at home. It’s not fair. Especially when Adam got off scot free.’
‘Not scot free,’ Kieran says, casually picking an apple out of the fruit basket. ‘He’s out of the squad for the summer track meet.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Adam splutters.
Kieran tests the weight of the apple, then throws it in the air, catching it like a cricket catcher. ‘Nope. You know that guy you brought along to practice?
‘Simon?’
‘Yeah. Simon. Turns out with a bit of practice he’s a fast little bugger. Faster than Jared. Probably even faster than you. Reece put him on the squad.’
‘I’m not worried. There’ll be a place left.’
‘Aah, Adam, remember what the Bulldog said: no boot camp, no track meet, no exceptions.’
‘But...’
‘Forget it. You’re out, man.’
Adam’s surprised to find he doesn’t mind. He’s pleased for Simon. And at least now he doesn’t have to feel guilty about the times he cheated, ticking off Reece’s boxes without actually doing the training. Adam grins. Suddenly, it feels like things might be going back to normal, like people won’t always be tip-toeing around him because his mother’s gone missing.
Shaking himself from his daydream, Adam realises his friends are talking about something else.
‘But I haven’t got a computer,’ Skye says.
‘Well, then, let’s send Kieran out for pizza and a movie. Make up for his delinquencies.’
‘Good idea,’ Skye chimes in.
Kieran groans. ‘Aw, come on. I don’t even like pepperoni.’
Chapter 37
Late January
Dear Mum,
You’ll be pleased to know I finally knuckled down and passed my Level 3 exams. In a few weeks, I’m off to Wellington to study IT at Victoria Uni. Sorry, Mum, but the Masters in French you wanted me to do is going to be beyond me. To tell you the truth, I think Madame Hourdin was relieved. I never did get to grips with the subjunctive. They tell me Vic has a good athletics team, but I don’t see myself making it big in sport. For me, running is more about that work-life balance you’re always going on to Dad about. You can run out a lot of angst in a few circuits on the track. And I suppose it’s a good place to meet new people, as well.
You might not have heard, but
I have a girlfriend. Yeah, I know, get out the best china. She’s pretty special. Her name is Skye, which is appropriate, if you know what I mean. I think you’d like her. One thing’s for sure, she doesn’t put up with any crap from me. Even my famous hang-dog look doesn’t score any points with her! Skye’s going to do a degree in natural sciences at Massey. With her in Palmy, there’ll be a couple of hours drive between us, so we won’t be hanging out every other day at the pub, but we’re hopeful. That is, I’m hoping she isn’t too impressed by brawny agricultural blokes in their Swanndris and gumboots.
Since we’re on the subject, Dad is seeing more of his secretary and, when I move out, she plans to move into the house. Maybe you already knew about Marilyn, Mum. Maybe she’s the reason you disappeared. Detective Pūriri says it’s possible. He says people have shot through for less and he reminded me that, with your illness, maybe you couldn’t help yourself. It’s true, you’re prone to being a bit emotional. I’m not trying to make you mad, Mum, I’m just stating the facts. Anyway, I made Dad promise not to sell the house, just in case you come home, and he’s okay with that, although I’m not sure Marilyn was too chuffed. I’ll admit I was angry about her in the beginning, Mum. Okay, if I’m fair, I was a bit of a shit to her, but she’s hung in there. She’s really got it bad for Dad, treats him like he’s a movie star or something. Since I’ve met Skye I understand it more, how a person can make you feel like you could jump off a skyscraper and land safely on the footpath without so much as bending your knees. Don’t worry, Mum, I’m not planning to do anything stupid. I’m not suicidal. All I’m saying is, I’m trying to give Marilyn a chance.
I’m really looking forward to getting stuck in at uni. It’ll be good for me, a change of scene. A chance to put some stuff behind me. The months since you disappeared haven’t been too flash. Some days, I wonder if you walked all the way to France for the milk. Sorry. It helps if I make a joke. It’s better than crying.
I’ve missed you, Mum. Everywhere I go, I scan people’s faces, looking for you, but I have to stop that. It’s gutting. Besides, I figure if there was a way you could contact me, then you would’ve done it by now. I guess that means something bad has happened, and you can’t come home. I try not to think about that. Then Grandpa reminded me that you’re always with me, part of me, because I’m your son.
Anyway, wherever you are, Mum, I just want you to know that I love you and I’ll never, ever forget you.
Your loving son and Master Warrior,
Adam.
Adam slides the letter into an envelope and seals the flap.
‘Dad? You there? I’m off out for a sec. Gotta stick something in the post.’
Dad puts his head around the door, a pair of kitchen tongs in one hand. ‘Don’t be long, mate. I’m firing up the barbecue for lunch. Thought I might cook us up a couple of snarlers. Marilyn’s making a salad. We’ve got to get it cleared away before the cricket starts.’
Adam walks along the street to the dairy, taking the same route Mum would’ve the night she disappeared. It looks set to be another long, hot summer afternoon: another great-to-be-alive Sunday. In one front yard, a couple of kids squeal as they leap over a sprinkler. The little one is completely starkers. Mrs Steele, out watering her flowerbeds, waves at Adam. In return, Adam raises the envelope and flaps it like a flag. Somewhere nearby, someone is mowing the lawn. The drone shifts. Change of direction.
At the dairy, Mum’s face stares at Adam from the poster taped to the window. The colours have faded after a month of summer.
‘Hey, Mum,’ he says.
Then, holding the envelope to his nose, Adam breathes in its clean papery scent before slipping it into the post box. He figures it has as good a chance as any of reaching her.
Wherever she is.
Ten things I’m going to do if Mum ever comes home:
1. Not leave my whiffy clothes on the floor (she’s right—it doesn’t hurt me to walk down the hall and put them in the laundry basket).
2. Learn how to make Moroccan Lamb—her special recipe, because it’s the best.
3. Give her car back—you wouldn’t believe the stick the guys have been giving me about the girly colour.
4. Carry a condom at all times—even blokes like me get lucky sometimes, and she’s too young to be a grandma.
5. Leave some spare change in an obvious place.
6. Take a morning off and walk the boardwalk with her.
7. Ask her if she’s happy, and listen to the answer.
8. Tell her I love her.
9. Be the best person I can be.
10. Always buy the milk.
About the Author
Lee Murray writes fiction for children and adults. A multiple Sir Julius Vogel Award winner, her other titles include romantic comedy, A Dash of Reality and children’s novel, Battle of the Birds. Lee lives in New Zealand with her family. http://www.leemurray.info
An excerpt from STIM, by Kevin Berry (reproduced with permission)
CHAPTER ONE
My ‘therapist’ suggested I should write a diary to try to understand these turbulent emotions. That is because it is difficult for me to know what are emotions and what are not. All I have are the thoughts in my head—sometimes calm, logical and ordered, sometimes a combination of things I do not quite recognise, yet they seem to draw me unrelentingly into the deep like some theoretical ravenous sea monster. I guess those are the emotions. Whatever they are, they are hard to qualify, tricky to understand, sometimes near impossible to control. It is like trying to put one of those giant jigsaws together, but I have never even seen the picture on the box, so I do not know where I am with it or what it is I am trying to make. I also suspect I am missing some of the important pieces.
By ‘therapist’, I do not mean a real professional therapist, of course. I cannot afford one of those on my meagre student allowance and haphazard income from part-time jobs. I mean Chloe. She is my friend and flatmate, and she is taking first-year Psychology at University (yet again), so she must know something. Also, her father pays for her to see a psychotherapist. I suppose I am receiving some help by proxy.
Just like me, Chloe is an Aspie. That is what we call ourselves, those of us who have Asperger’s Syndrome, which is the most common form of Autism. In addition to this Autistic Spectrum Disorder (or Difference, as she likes to call it), she also has an eclectic assortment of other diagnoses, but these are probably wrong. She has at various times been diagnosed with ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder), GAD (Generalised Anxiety Disorder) and SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), amongst others. She is numerically and lexically dyslexic, and she is hyperlexic, so when I want to say something, sometimes I have to interrupt her. She advised me to do that. She might be other -exics or -axics as well, but she has forgotten about them if she is.
Anyway, Chloe copes quite well with the NS (Non-Spectrum) world, or NT (Neuro-Typical) world, as most people call it. It must be due to all the psychotherapy she has had. Some Aspies genuinely struggle to cope with the various facets of everyday life, because the social etiquettes of life are developed and maintained by NS people, and therefore some of them seem strange, uncomfortable or disturbing. We are the square pegs that do not neatly fit into the round holes of life without taking a battering.
I feel lucky and privileged to have met Chloe, as she helps me understand how to navigate the murky seas of the NS world, avoid drowning in the ebb and flow of emotions, decode the hidden meanings of clichés and idioms, and recite the common dishonest responses that are expected when exchanging social niceties. She has already learned to solve these interpersonal puzzles, you see. I do not know if she is just an exceptionally kind person, or if she sees me as some kind of psychology project, and I do not know how I could know this without her actually telling me, and I do not know how to ask. Apparently, NS people know these kinds of things without even thinking about them. How they can do so without being told, I do not know. It is bewildering to me.
Sometimes I wonder w
hy, when there are so many words to choose from to convey something clearly, people do not say what they mean, or mean what they say, but instead talk in some kind of code which I do not actually get, but NS people do. There are times when I think they are talking a totally different language, in which the meaning is often as twisted and mysterious as the roots of some ancient oak tree, buried and creeping in an unknown direction, and I cannot perceive it or dig it out.
I need my routines, of knowing something familiar will happen and when and how and with whom. I cannot visualise what something is like, or how it would feel, that has not happened to me yet. All I can do is remember all the things that have happened, and find the ones that are most like whatever is happening now, and assume history repeats. Apparently, it does not exactly, but it rhymes, and that is usually close enough.
All I know is how I experience the world, and that I do not comprehend much of it, and that not particularly well. I struggle to see why people do what they do, and say what they say. And that is sometimes painful, but mostly it is okay. The world does not understand me either, and that is fine. Chloe is there to help me find a safe passage through the treacherous waterways of life, to navigate the tempestuous sea of emotions of other people without being overwhelmed and sinking. At the moment, anyway. I trust her entirely.
Anyway, Chloe said I should write a diary or journal, because I can think so clearly in words, even if I cannot vocalise them especially well. And I can write them and never forget what I wrote or when I wrote it or where I wrote it. I think words are beautiful, especially the ones with neat little letters that do not extend up or down above the others, like ‘universe’ and ‘unconsciousness’, because they look so tidy on the line. But it is not possible to write a whole book like that, though I believe one person wrote a novel entirely without the letter ‘e’. I would not do that as ‘e’ is one of the letters I like.