After the Fall

by Norman, Charity

  Sacha slaved all day. I ferried sandwiches and biscuits across to the hut and hung around to make sure she actually ate them. When she came in for supper that evening she seemed much happier.

  ‘I’m on track,’ she announced. ‘The essay is going to be awesome. I reckon I’ll ace an Excellence.’ She lifted a fist, miming a superhero’s biceps. ‘Brainygirl is rising to the challenge!’

  That night, Finn walked in his sleep. I heard a bedroom door in the dark. It was enough to jerk me into consciousness. Hunched under the covers beside me, Kit’s voice was slurred, his tongue paralysed by sleep. ‘Yoo goan, Marfa, or me?’

  ‘My turn.’ I sat up, patted his shoulder and padded out onto the dimly lit landing. Finn was in his pyjamas, just standing, looking steadily at a fixed point in midair.

  ‘D’you wanna come?’ he asked some phantom companion. ‘Be fun.’

  ‘I’ll come, Finny,’ I said amicably, and took his hand. He let me lead him to the toilet—his aim was disastrous—and back to the delightful warmth of his bed where he snuggled down, stroking his ear. I was kissing his cheek when I heard a muffled crash from downstairs. My heart leaped into my throat as I ran to the banister, straining my eyes and ears through the dark. There was a thin vertical gleam at the kitchen door, and a voice—a female voice. I listened for a full minute, until I was sure it was Sacha’s. Then I trotted down the stairs and pushed at the door. A shriek of terror greeted me.

  Sacha was fully dressed, whirling around with her hand to her chest. ‘Oh my God, Mum! Just about wet myself.’

  ‘Sacha!’ I cried, with an incredulous glance at the kitchen clock. ‘It’s two fifteen! What the hell are you doing?’

  She was standing with one hand on the kettle, and she’d turned white. Muffin stirred in her basket, eyeing us dozily. ‘Whew, that was freaky,’ gasped Sacha. ‘The way that door kind of swung open . . . I expected one of those spooky fairies to poke his head around.’

  ‘Yes, but what’s going on?’

  ‘I’ve finished my work! Thought I’d have a Milo to help me sleep.’ She held up a mug. ‘Want one?’

  ‘No thanks. Look—this isn’t on, you can’t work all night.’ I watched her pour boiling water into the mug. ‘I heard a crash.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Knocked a saucepan off the draining board.’

  ‘And talking. Who were you talking to?’

  She looked sheepish. ‘Sorry again. Been practising my speech for the debate tomorrow. Going to whip their arses! Want to hear it?’

  ‘No, I . . .’ I blinked. The situation felt surreal. ‘I mean yes, of course I want to hear it but not at two o’clock in the morning! Look, doll, I think you’re going to have to give something up. You need your beauty sleep.’

  She stirred her Milo. ‘All the teachers set work at once. They all think their own subject is the only one that matters. I’m off to bed now.’

  We whispered as we climbed the stairs. ‘Did that saucepan wake you?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Finn was sleepwalking again.’

  She kissed my cheek. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘You’re the best mum in the history of the universe.’

  A few days later, Sacha turned seventeen. Kit and I gave her an iPod Touch with all the bells and whistles. This soulless piece of technology was what she wanted most in the world; apparently her older, cheaper machine was totally yesterday. Dad sent cash, Lou a silver filigree bracelet. Finn and Charlie made clay models which they swore were Homer and Marge Simpson, but looked more like daleks. Bless her, Sacha managed to be ecstatic about them.

  We threw a party the following weekend: a birthday-cum-belated-housewarming bash. After three days of rain, the sky cleared just in time. Sacha had invited an amorphous mass of young people, of both genders. Tabby couldn’t, or wouldn’t, come. The two dull girls fetched up with their monosyllables and slumped shoulders. Bianka arrived early to help us get ready, but—mysteriously—not Jani. In fact, I hadn’t heard his name mentioned since New Year.

  The district turned out in force: Jean and Pamela, Ira with his graceful girlfriend, Jane and Destiny, and several local families. Keith Emmerson from Capeview brought his wife but not the four daughters. They all hopped out of their cars carrying boxes of cold beer and plates of goodies— venison burgers, paua fritters and a meringue delight called pavlova. They described this largesse as ‘bringing a plate’ and seemed to think it perfectly normal. I was mildly offended at first—what, did they think I couldn’t manage?—but later discovered that Hawke’s Bay people never turn up at a party empty-handed.

  Tama came too, climbing the boundary fence. I saw him strolling across the valley with the inevitable box of beer in his arms, and went to meet him.

  ‘You’re looking harassed,’ he said, as we drew near enough to speak.

  ‘Not harassed. Busy. Work work, children children, party party.’

  ‘You should come out riding with us again. Therapeutic.’

  I laughed. ‘You know, I might just do that.’

  As we wandered across the pasture I told him about Gareth, the pilot with a head injury. After a year of hellish struggle, his young wife had finally cut and run.

  Tama opened the gate into our garden, standing back to let me through. ‘Do you bring these sad things home with you?’

  ‘Usually I can leave work behind. Just occasionally one of them gets into my head. Gareth’s one of those. He’s lost himself.’

  It was a good evening. I began to feel as though these people could be my friends. I have an impression of Tama and assorted farmers in shorts, staunchly glued to the barbecue in a legs-splayed, beer-drinking stance. They held bottles in fists in front of their chests; a story, a joke, an explosion of laughter. Meanwhile, women gathered in the kitchen to swap defamatory tales about their husbands. Finn and Charlie patrolled the garden with a band of merry men, swinging in the trees and terrorising parents with water pistols. Finally Sacha and her mob emerged from the smoko hut, requisitioned the pistols and sprayed each other, their yells reverberating across the valley. Even Tama’s horses lifted their heads to stare.

  We had speakers out on the verandah. I put on something Greek and atmospheric, and Sacha and Bianka were the first to dance as the sun went down. Sacha was wearing a leopardprint sundress, decidedly skimpy, and the filigree bracelet Lou had sent. As I watched, it struck me with unpleasant force that dieting had changed her shape completely. She wasn’t my bouncing, busty-and-proud-of-it daughter any more. She looked fragile, the once rounded young cheeks showing the bones of a Vogue model. Her complexion was suffering, too. After a zit-free adolescence, she’d developed some acne on her face and was using foundation to cover it up.

  All the same, the two girls were a picture as they jived in the lemon light under swathes of bougainvillea. Bianka seemed hypnotised by Sacha. She smiled whenever she looked at her, which was often.

  As the alcohol went down, noise levels went up. The teenagers retreated to the smoko hut. I turned on our fairy lights, and more people began to dance in the fragrant dusk. Kit was pacing himself with the booze, I noticed. He was in his element, everywhere at once, making sure no one had an empty glass. Everybody seemed to know and like him. I even heard him pick up an invitation to go deep-sea fishing; this high-tech hunter-gathering was evidently a traditional male bonding ritual.

  I was sashaying exuberantly with Jean when Bianka sought me out to say goodbye. My neighbour was teaching me to salsa, which was shambolic but hilarious.

  ‘Thank you.’ Bianka embraced me. ‘Your daughter is so beautiful.’

  Surprised, I looked into the pale face. ‘You’re not staying?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘No.’

  ‘But—no, Bianka, you must stay. I thought you were all bringing duvets?’

  ‘Martha . . .’ She stood looking at me, her mouth turning up and down at the same time as though she was about to howl.

  I laid a hand on her arm. ‘What’s the matter? Has something happened?’

 
; ‘I have to get home. Mum’s not well.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I walked her around the house. ‘Please tell your mum I’m thinking about her. Come and see us again soon.’

  She thanked me again and got into a car, taking three other girls with her. Haunted by a sense of deep unease, I watched them drive away. I was still standing under the gloomy canopy of the walnut tree when I felt Kit’s arm around my waist.

  ‘Never saw a girl so sad,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Her mother’s dying.’ There was a wobble in my throat; for Bianka’s sake, and because I was tired and a little drunk. And maybe because I didn’t quite know who I was, just at that moment. ‘All those years,’ I said. ‘All those friends, the special places we used to go, the things that made us happy . . . they’re just history, now, aren’t they?’

  ‘They’re our history, though.’ Kit smoothed my hair.

  ‘And we’re just history to them, too. We’ve deleted ourselves. We’ve been cut from there and pasted here.’

  ‘C’mon,’ he said, taking my hand. ‘Let’s dance.’

  The last of Sacha’s mates had gone by lunchtime the next day. She slumped into the kitchen, complaining of nausea and denying that she’d had a drop of alcohol.

  ‘You’re in a state,’ I nagged, putting a hand to her forehead. I found a vitamin C tablet and lobbed it into a glass of water. ‘And you’re ruining your complexion with this silly dieting. What time did you turn in last night?’

  She was roaming up and down the room, staring into the fridge, banging drawers. She opened one cupboard three times. ‘About two.’

  ‘Five, more like. You’d better go back to bed.’

  ‘I might do that.’ She rubbed her face. ‘Aching all over. I’ve got another filthy cold coming on. It’s this freakin’ country, there’s all these new viruses I’ve got no immunity to.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t give it to Bianka. They don’t need it in their household.’

  ‘Bianka.’ Sacha hissed a filthy word under her breath—just audibly enough for me to be shocked—then scratched herself on the upper arm. ‘Dog’s got fleas.’

  ‘I was surprised she left so early last night.’

  ‘Yeah. Well. Whatever.’ She walked into the larder, lifted down a packet of dried noodles and tore them open. Half the contents fell out.

  There was a brief ceasefire, sulky on both sides.

  ‘I still think those two girls are incredibly boring.’ I knew I was needling, but I couldn’t help it. ‘Those skinny ones, Taylah and . . .’

  ‘Teresa.’

  ‘That’s the ones. I really don’t know what you see in them.’

  ‘Better boring than narrow-minded and judgemental.’ Sacha was picking up every packet in the pantry, looking at the labels.

  ‘Don’t be cheeky. What are you after? Dustpan and brush, I hope. Noodles all over the floor.’

  She found a bag of mini chocolate bars and unwrapped one, jamming it into her mouth. ‘Anita’s not responding to radiotherapy,’ she mumbled. ‘I don’t think she’s going to make it. D’you think she’s going to make it? The dad’s in denial. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Yes, I can. Are you—’

  ‘He won’t let anyone say the word cancer, wants to pretend it isn’t happening.’ Sacha poured boiling water over her noodles, talking loudly. ‘I think narrow-minded people are the real villains, trying to repress free speech and free thinkers . . . I mean, why should we live by the rules of people who know and understand nothing about us? It’s my age group who understand the technology, your generation haven’t a clue, can’t keep up with all the changes. You’re just totally out of date. You’re—’

  ‘I am not out of date.’

  ‘—dinosaurs, and you know what happened to them? We actually rule the world because we have the knowledge. Knowledge is power!’

  ‘You’re spouting rubbish. Go and have a shower and get changed.’

  She looked sidelong at me. It was quite sinister. ‘Why?’

  ‘And bring down your washing. There are piles of it in your room.’

  ‘How do you know what’s in my room? Christ, will you back off? I’m not a frigging two-year-old!’

  ‘Well, you’re behaving like one!’ I sounded like one of the hens. No, it was worse than that: both in words and tone, I was my own mother. I’d never thought that day would come.

  ‘You can’t handle it, can you?’ snarled Sacha. ‘Everyone has to be totally reliant on you, or you fall apart. You’ve got to be everyone’s little saviour.’

  ‘Look—’

  Her anger filled the room. ‘You’re pretty pleased with yourself. You think you’re a legend as a human being. You always have to be the life and soul of the party. It was my birthday but you had to be the centre of attention, dancing on the verandah. I could hear your fake laugh from the smoko hut.’ She tossed her head, imitating brassy, pretentious laughter. ‘Other women fancy your husband—that’s a real plus for you! You’ve got something they want.’

  ‘Why d’you have to get all hormonal and hellish now, Sacha? You used to be a dream teen.’

  She lifted the corner of her lip. ‘Trophy husband, complete with sexy Irish accent. What a devilish charmer! Nobody would believe Kit had a little problem, would they?’

  ‘He hasn’t. Not any more.’

  ‘Well, he was a honey pot last night. You’d better watch out, Mum. Mind you, perhaps you’ve got your own distractions. I saw you rushing across the paddock to meet Tama Pardoe.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’

  Behind me, the door to the hall creaked. The boys tiptoed in. ‘What’s the matter?’ Charlie almost mouthed the words. ‘Why are people shouting?’

  To my amazement, Sacha threw herself to the floor and pulled her brothers onto her lap. Gone like a puff of smoke was the horrible hormone monster.

  ‘I love you guys,’ she whispered, and held them to her chest.

  Then she went to bed and slept and slept, like a princess in a tower.

  Twenty-four

  I’m woken by a door shutting. Kura Pohatu is back, and there’s a new purpose in her gait. It’s as though she’s rolled up her sleeves.

  Day and night have merged; sleep and waking, nightmare and reality are one and the same. I am in a strange room, with a television and a pile of magazines. I struggle to remember how I got here.

  Kura folds herself into the same chair as before. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘One of the paediatricians wanted a word with me.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ I try to shake the fog from my head. ‘I think I should be getting back to Finn now, though.’

  She watches me shrewdly for a final moment. She’s taking aim. Then she fires. ‘Has Finn ever broken a bone?’

  ‘Um . . . yes. A toe.’

  ‘Nothing more than a toe?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘The team took another look at his X-rays this morning.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Until now they’ve been working to save his life. They concentrated on vital organs. Now he’s stabilised they’ve been able to look for signs of . . . Well, Martha, what if I just tell you that Finn has a fracture to his right wrist.’

  ‘I know he has. We all know that. He’s got a bloody great plaster cast on it.’

  She shakes her head impatiently. ‘I haven’t made myself clear. This break is older, though close to the site of the new injury. The orthopaedic surgeon thinks it was a greenstick fracture and estimates it occurred several months ago, maybe six months or more.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘There is calcification where it’s healed, but we have no record of Finn’s being presented to a doctor or emergency department. Why is that?’

  I struggle to understand. Perhaps I’m still dreaming. ‘Six months?’

  ‘Or possibly earlier. Certainly since you arrived in New Zealand. That was a year ago, wasn’t it? All right. Well, since then.’

  ‘No, no. Finn has never broken his a
rm.’

  ‘I’m afraid he has.’

  I stare at her as the implications sink in. ‘I honestly and truly know nothing about this.’

  ‘I can get someone to come and show you the X-ray if you like. They know what they’re talking about.’ The regal grandmother seems a little menacing, suddenly. I want to run away. ‘Martha, I can’t help if you won’t be open with me. I’m not suggesting you did anything yourself.’

  I feel a guilty blush spreading up my throat. They think we’ve been hurting Finn for months. They think we broke his arm. Well, of course they do. He has a fracture, and I didn’t even know. How could I not know? Bad mother. Bad mother.

  ‘There has to be a mistake,’ I insist desperately.

  ‘I don’t think there’s a mistake.’

  Kura lets the silence lengthen. She’s not afraid of silence. That’s what gives her power. The minutes tick by, and she waits like a cat at a mouse hole.

  ‘Six months.’ I try to remember every fall, every fight since we arrived here. In the life of a small boy there are many falls, and many fights. My memory is suddenly opaque, a sludge of panic.

  Then it comes to me. Something so small, so silly. A bicycle wheel, stuck in a rut under a walnut tree. ‘Hang on . . . Oh my God. I think I know. Maybe.’

  Kura pulls out a notebook as I tell the story of Finn’s tumble on New Year’s Day. She scribbles as she listens. I don’t think she believes a word. I don’t blame her. ‘So you never got him to a doctor?’ she asks dubiously.

  ‘Sorry . . . I know it sounds pretty slack, but honestly he seemed fine. In a few days he was back to normal.’

  ‘Did he need a lot of analgesic? He must have been in pain.’

  ‘Er . . .’ I think back. ‘I remember giving him Pamol a few times.’

  She looks unconvinced.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re the first parents to miss a fracture,’ I argue helplessly. ‘In fact I’ve heard of GPs making the same mistake.’

  She closes her notebook. ‘I’ll discuss this with the team. It sets alarm bells ringing when an injured child isn’t presented to a doctor.’

  ‘Oh, marvellous. So in your book we’re either abusive or we’re negligent.’