After the Fall

by Norman, Charity

  ‘We can defeat it,’ I insist desperately. ‘We’ll go to a doctor. We’ll find a rehab place of some sort.’

  Dad holds up a hand. ‘Please listen, Martha. Listen to our plan.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it!’ I wail, pressing my hands to my ears.

  ‘Mum.’ Sacha slides from her rock and kneels in the sand in front of me. ‘Just saying sorry isn’t enough for me, this time. It can never be enough.’

  So I listen, as the evening light softens Hinemoana’s limestone face. I listen, and I argue. In the end, I can’t fault the logic of their plan. It makes perfect sense. It gives us all a way out. But it’s too much to bear.

  Venus has risen as we begin to make our way back up the beach. The three of us don’t speak much. We’ve made our decision. Even the waves are subdued.

  ‘Look,’ says Sacha, stopping to squint into the gloom. ‘Someone’s coming to meet us.’

  Peering down the pale curve of the surf line, I make out a human shadow, a streak in the gunmetal twilight. He lopes steadily closer, hands in his pockets; no hint at all of a drunken stagger.

  ‘It’s Kit!’ cries Sacha, and I hear her feet sinking in the wet sand as she runs. I’m about to follow when I feel a firm hand on my arm.

  ‘They’ve a lot to talk about,’ says Dad.

  ‘She might need help! He’s probably plastered.’

  ‘He looks sober enough to me. Have a little faith, Martha.’

  I watch Sacha’s sprinting figure. ‘Will you tell her about her father?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s not my secret to tell.’

  ‘But you’ll be tempted.’

  ‘Kit is her father.’ Dad nods up the beach. ‘Look.’

  Ahead of us, the two silhouettes merge.

  Forty-two

  Six days. She has six days to pack, to organise, to say goodbye.

  I try to put on a cheerful face. Really, I do try. I field anxious phone calls, assuring all enquirers that she just wants to finish her education in the UK—gosh, yes, she’ll be back before we know it. I wash her clothes and organise the flights. Kit helps the boys to tape themselves telling jokes and singing their naughtiest songs, which they think might cheer her up when she’s lonely.

  Again and again, Dad tries to reassure me that we’re doing the right thing. She’ll live with him, in the bedroom that she’s always used. She can go back to her old school, back to Lydia and her other friends, and simply start Year Twelve again. When I protest that we can’t afford the fees, he smiles. He was going to leave Sacha a little money in his will. Well, he’ll pay the school fees with it instead, and cheat the tax man.

  But it doesn’t help.

  Every moment of every day is bathed in cold grief. Once the lights go out at night, we seem to drown in it. This time next week we’ll have no Sacha. There will be emptiness and silence where she used to be. It feels almost like a death.

  This time in five days, she’ll be gone.

  Four days.

  Three.

  Two.

  It takes all her resolve to keep going through this crash. She forces herself to stay on the job, sorting through her possessions with gritted-teeth determination. There’s a new certainty about her, as though—at last—she knows her enemy. On the final afternoon she telephones the Colberts and asks to visit. They’re delighted to hear from her.

  The river is too high to ford so she and I drive around to their place.

  ‘Sure you want to do this, Sacha?’ asks Kit, as we leave the house. ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘No more secrets.’ Sacha begins to scratch her wrist, then balls her hands into nervous fists. ‘That’s rule number one.’

  I’m not so sure. In fact, I’m dreading the next hour. Last night I dug out the newspaper article about Jean and his petition. Those who are involved in the supply of this substance, and those who offend while under its influence, must be brought to justice and irrevocably removed from our streets.

  Unequivocal, you might say.

  I’ve barely parked before Pamela and Jean come smiling out to meet us, kissing Sacha on both cheeks and exclaiming over how tired she looks. They’ve laid a pot of tea and blueberry muffins on a coffee table by the fire in their living room. It isn’t a room they use much—generally they’re to be found in their palatial kitchen or out on the glorious terrace—but today is obviously a special occasion. They’ve set out fine china teacups with gold edging. Above the fireplace, four brothers laugh together on a hillside.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ begs Jean, pulling out chairs. ‘We’re so pleased you’ve come. We didn’t like to intrude at such a time. Your family will want to be left in peace, with Sacha and your father leaving so soon.’

  ‘When will you be back?’ asks Pamela, as she eases another log into the fire.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Sacha. She picks up a muffin, then lays it back on her plate. ‘Look, Pamela . . . Jean. I can’t eat your muffins. I can’t accept any more of your kindness until I tell you something.’

  Pamela is still fiddling with the fireguard but Jean leans closer, rubbing his hands amiably. ‘A revelation! Go ahead.’

  ‘Right.’ Sacha glances at me, nervously tucking a curl behind her ear. ‘Um, right. It’s to do with why I’m leaving.’

  And she tells them, with an honesty and humility that gives me hope. At first Pamela and Jean wear indulgent smiles, as though she’s a small child reciting a poem; but as she continues to talk, the affection freezes on their faces. Pamela moves to sit on the arm of Jean’s chair. He’s leaning on one elbow, chewing his thumbnail and staring intently at Sacha while she tells them about her addiction, and the burglary, and Sibella’s portrait. There’s no hint of his usual good-natured humour.

  As Sacha describes how she began to courier the drug, Jean’s face actually seems to change texture. He looks like a different man. Any minute, I think, he’s going to order us both out of the house. After all, he’s heard the whining justifications of P addicts and their parents before. It was the P that did it, the P changed her son . . . I hope he hangs himself in jail.

  It’s when she comes to the night Finn fell that Sacha finally breaks down. Perhaps the hostile silence of her audience has unnerved her. She stops in mid-sentence and covers her face with her hands.

  I rub her back, wishing we hadn’t come. ‘I owe you both an apology,’ I say. ‘I didn’t tell you the truth.’ Two horrified faces turn to me as I describe exactly what happened on the balcony.

  Pamela takes Jean’s hand. ‘So the social workers were absolutely right,’ she says dazedly. ‘Finn didn’t just fall. He was thrown.’

  ‘I threw him,’ whispers Sacha.

  ‘You threw him.’ Pamela blinks incredulously. ‘And I gave them an earful. I told them you were the nicest family I’d ever met.’

  ‘If you feel you must, you can phone the social services this minute,’ I tell her. ‘Or the police. Turn us in, I can’t stop you. But Sacha is leaving New Zealand tomorrow and I have no idea when—or if—she will ever come back.’

  The fire sparks and spits in the grate. Jean’s eyes turn to the painting above the mantelpiece, and we all follow his gaze. Daniel smiles down at us, his face young and hopeful, hands around his little brother’s shoulders. The next moment Sacha is on her feet, clumsily knocking the coffee table as she lurches sideways. A china cup tumbles to the floor, spraying tea in a long, dark streak across the carpet.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she says, her voice high and quavering. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here . . . Mum, please can we just go?’

  She heads blindly for the door. I’m stooping to pick up the fallen teacup when Jean levers himself from his chair. His eyes look hot and red-rimmed.

  ‘No,’ he roars.

  Pamela’s hand shoots out. She pulls her husband back by the shoulder. ‘Let it go,’ she hisses urgently. ‘Wait until you’ve calmed down. You might say something you regret.’

  Jean shakes her off. ‘Sacha!’ he shouts. Hi
s voice seems to rock the peaceful room. ‘Don’t you dare leave this house.’

  Sacha halts in the doorway. She’s beside herself, bent double with sobs, her arms tight around her stomach as though she has an agonising cramp. ‘I just want to go,’ she weeps. She’s gasping for breath. ‘Just want to . . . I’m so ashamed.’

  Jean moves closer to her. I’m about to intervene when he holds out his arms and hugs her to his chest.

  ‘I’ve never had a daughter.’ He inhales, shutting his eyes. ‘But if I had one, I hope she would be very much like you.’

  Daybreak dilutes the darkness, and the early sun glints on the fuselage of a small aircraft. The rolling hills beyond the runway stretch forever and forever, painted and shaded like the backdrop to a play.

  The seven of us left Patupaiarehe in a pewter dawn. It’s September, just as it was when we first made our home there. Beside the drive the last daffodils waved farewell, like old friends.

  The travellers have already checked in their bags. We’re running out of time. Kit and Dad are talking about practicalities while Sacha and I press close together at a table. Her head is tilted onto my shoulder. She’s wearing a pendant of carved pounamu around her neck; a present from Tama and Ira, made especially for her. She says she can feel their calm and strength in the warm greenstone.

  Nearby, there’s a kiosk. Two cheerful women stand chatting behind its counter. Commuters with briefcases are drinking coffee and reading newspapers. For those people, it’s a normal day. I feel as though there will never again be a normal day.

  The twins stomp around the polished floor, their hair sculpted into wild bed shapes, palms and noses pressed to the glass wall of the terminal as they watch the plane being refuelled. It will carry its precious cargo from Napier to Auckland, and by this afternoon they will have left New Zealand.

  ‘There’s Sacha’s bag,’ whimpers Charlie. He’s holding Blue Blanket to his ear. ‘That man just threw it down a hatch. Why are you going away, Sacha?’

  Finn’s arm is still in a sling, but his hair is already beginning to grow. ‘You and Grandpa had both better be home in time for our birthday,’ he growls fiercely.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ says Sacha, and then she quickly turns away. There are bruised hollows beneath her eyes, and her skin has no bloom. I hold her thin frame against my chest and feel the tears burning holes in my eyelids. I can’t let her go. I can’t bear the thought of life without her.

  The call comes too soon. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.

  ‘That’s us,’ mutters Dad, and feels in his pocket for boarding passes.

  Panicked, Sacha and I cling together. Perhaps I can keep her with me if I hold tight enough. I feel Kit’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Martha,’ he says gently. ‘C’mon, you have to let go now.’

  At last I give her up. She kneels on the floor, and her brothers clamber over her as other passengers file past. Then Kit rocks her in his arms.

  ‘We’re going to miss you like crazy,’ he murmurs.

  A girl stands slightly apart from our group, unwilling to intrude. She has wavy hair and arched eyebrows like a pre-war Hollywood film star, and her face is geisha pale. When we hear the final call, Sacha rushes to embrace her. This isn’t the mascara-streaked hysteria of those classmates over a year ago. It’s far more profound.

  ‘I’ll come back,’ promises Sacha, wiping her friend’s tears. ‘I’ll come back.’

  The man at the gate looks at us, then at his watch. He holds out his hand for boarding passes. We’re out of time.

  Just as they’re passing through the gate, Sacha stops dead, and turns around. Dad has taken her arm but she shakes him off and runs back to me, crying helplessly. I hold her face in my hands and kiss her, one last time.

  Let her go, says my mother. There’s compassion in her voice. If you love her, let her go.

  ‘Go on,’ I whisper to Sacha. ‘It will be all right. Get well.’

  I watch them hurry across the tarmac and up the metal steps. My father. My daughter. There’s a fresh wind, and it dances in Sacha’s hair. As she reaches the aircraft’s door she looks back at us and waves frantically, then ducks her head and disappears. I notice Dad say something to the young cabin attendant, see her smile. Still smiling, she reaches out and shuts the door behind him.

  Kit takes my hand, and we race up to the viewing platform and wait in thin sunshine, trying to work out which little round window has Sacha behind it. We pretend we can see her face. The aircraft begins to move, taxiing away from the terminal building. At the top of the runway it slowly turns, and its engines roar.

  I’m waving. We’re all waving. Bianka stands beside me, tears glinting on her cheekbones. I put my arm around her shoulders.

  ‘She’s not coming back,’ she says. ‘Not really.’

  And that’s when my heart finally breaks.

  Sacha’s plane sprints along the runway and into the air, and we wave still more desperately, with all our arms. We’re crying out to our girl. We want her to see that we love her. We’re waving as she becomes a speck over the crumpled blanket of hills. We are still waving as she disappears into skeins of light cirrus.

  Hawke’s Bay Today

  Local News

  Yesterday marked the anniversary of the death of Napier-born Daniel Colbert, who was murdered on the streets of Wellington ten years ago. It is a date which his parents used to dread. Last night, however, they marked it with the launch of the Daniel Colbert Conservation Trust. For Daniel’s father, Jean Colbert, it was an occasion of new beginnings as some of the region’s most talented musicians, together with local artist Kit McNamara, came together to create an evening of entertainment and hope.

  ‘For the past decade I have focused too zealously on the cause of Daniel’s death,’ Mr Colbert told supporters who attended the concert in Napier’s Century Theatre. ‘My wife has been very patient! But now it is time to celebrate those things which made his life unique. He did not live to see his twenty-fourth birthday, but it is for those who loved and admired him to ensure that those twenty-three extraordinary years are not wasted on bitterness and mourning.

  ‘Daniel was a devoted conservationist whose last project was the protection of the tara-iti, or fairy tern. One of his constant worries was that of funding. That is why Pamela and I have set up a trust in his name, to fund academic teams whose aim is to further the understanding and protection of New Zealand’s unique fauna.’

  Mr Colbert declared the Trust’s first fundraising event a resounding success, thanks to the generosity of local performers. He warmly thanked celebrated Hawke’s Bay artist Kit McNamara, whose work is currently on sale in Dublin and New York as well as Napier’s Portside Gallery. Kit donated a series of paintings, each inspired by the landscape of Hawke’s Bay. They excited considerable interest and were sold by auction during the course of the evening, raising over ten thousand dollars.

  A highlight of the event was an atmospheric performance of Debussy’s flute solo Syrinx by nineteen-year-old British flautist Sacha Norris. The young musician’s technical fluency and mature interpretation held her audience spellbound. Sacha is the stepdaughter of Kit McNamara, and has spent the past fortnight in Hawke’s Bay visiting her family. It is likely to be her last such visit for some time: next week she will return to her home in the UK where she has gained a place to study medicine at Birmingham University, embarking on the long road to becoming a paediatrician.

  ‘I’d like to thank my family and friends for their incredible support and forgiveness,’ she told the audience. ‘I made some epic mistakes when I was younger, and hurt the people I most love. I also hurt myself. But they stood by me.’

  Referring to a year she spent living with her family in the isolated coastal community of Torutaniwha, Sacha had this to say: ‘Torutaniwha is a paradise, and my heart is still there with my parents and wonderful little brothers. I miss them every day. I learned a lot about myself in that year, and I’ll never be the same person again.’


  However, asked by the master of ceremonies whether she has plans to return permanently to New Zealand once qualified, Sacha looked doubtful. ‘There are some people who can handle living in paradise, and some who can’t. And you know what? I can’t.’

  Sacha dedicated her performance to Anita Varga, who died earlier this year, at the age of forty-five, after a long battle with cancer.