Vanessa redirects her attention to the contents of her bags and says, “Yeah, I guess.”
I’m feeling really uncomfortable now, as if I’m this huge intrusion into their lives. “I, uh, I don’t have to spend all my time with Vanessa and her mates,” I say quickly. “I was actually thinking I might look for a job or something.”
“Someone looking for a job?” calls a male voice from down the hallway that leads to the four-car garage.
“Hi, Ron,” says Aunt Lori as he pecks her on the cheek.
“Hello, ladies.” Then he focuses his attention on me. “Seriously, Hannah, did I hear you say you were looking for a job?”
I nod. “It wouldn’t hurt to earn some money for uni.”
“Uni?” He looks at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language.
“You know, university. What do you call it?”
“Oh, right. University or college.”
“Right.” But I’m thinking, Isn’t that what I just said?
“Well, if you’re serious about working, I just might have something for you, Hannah.”
Suddenly I envision myself dressed as a cleaner, scrubbing floors and picking up rubbish in some stuffy old office building. But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. At least I’d earn some cash and have something to do besides shadowing my cousin. “I’m rather good with a mop,” I tell him. “We all have to do our fair share at the group home on base. I certainly know how to scrub toilets, and I even do windows.”
He laughs. “I wasn’t actually thinking of a janitorial job for you, but I do like your spirit.”
“What, then?”
“Oh, Hannah,” interrupts Vanessa, “you don’t want to waste your whole summer working for Dad when you could be having fun.”
“That’s true,” says Uncle Ron. “You could be out having fun with Vanessa. I don’t want to cramp your — ”
“No worries,” I say quickly. “I’d absolutely love a job, even if it was only cleaning and whatnot.”
He nods. “Okay, then, are you good on a computer?”
“I could give it a go.” I’m actually quite competent, but I don’t like to brag.
“And I know you’re good with people.”
“I reckon.”
“And your accent would be charming on the phone.”
“So what’s the deal?” I ask eagerly.
“One of my receptionists didn’t show today. I heard she was going to Las Vegas for the weekend. But she didn’t bother to tell anyone she was taking the day off. And it’s not the first time she’s pulled this, either.”
“So she’s getting the sack?”
He nods. “You want to give it a try, Hannah?”
“If you reckon I can handle it.”
He grins. “I reckon you can. That is, if you can handle the hours. Are you much of a morning person?”
I look at my watch. It has two faces — one set on Yank time and one still set for PNG. “Well, it’s about three a.m. in New Guinea right now. That’s pretty early and I’m still awake.”
“Good point. Your hours will be six in the morning until two in the afternoon.”
“Ugh,” calls Vanessa from the other side of the room where she’s showing today’s purchases to her mum. “That sounds like pure torture to me.”
“It’ll be alright,” I assure her. “And getting off at two in the afternoon still leaves time to muck around.”
Uncle Ron nods. “And Vanessa will barely be up by then anyway.”
“Yeah, sure, Dad.”
“Can you start on Monday, Hannah?”
“No worries!” So we shake on it, and it’s settled.
“You can use my Jeep to get to work,” he offers. “That is, if you have a driver’s license. Do you?”
I nod. “I got one when my dad did, just last week. I did even better on the test than he did, but don’t tell him I told.”
“Great. Do you think you can manage driving on the right side of the road? Or maybe I should let you practice this weekend. The keys are in the console of the Jeep if you want to take it out for a spin. Just remember to take my golf clubs out of the back before you go. And pop out the CD player when you park it; there’s a locking case under the seat for it.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s the first thing that’ll get stolen downtown. I had a soft top slit open when I forgot to remove it once. Unfortunately it costs more to replace the soft top than the CD player.”
“Okay, I’ll remember that. Thanks, Uncle Ron. That’s really cool of you.” And then I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around him and give him a big hug. “I really appreciate it.”
“In fact, just go ahead and consider the Jeep your vehicle while you’re here with us, Hannah. I rarely use it anyway. I’ve considered getting rid of it, but it’s handy for my clubs.”
“As if you ever play golf anymore,” says Aunt Lori as she joins us. “Your uncle thinks that life begins and ends with work.” Now she turns and looks at me more closely, but she has this funny expression on her face, as if she’s deliberating over something. “Well, Hannah,” she says slowly, “now that you’ve got a job, you might have to rethink your wardrobe. She can’t go into the office wearing pants with holes in them, now can she, Ron?”
He just shrugs as he heads for the fridge. “I’m sure you girls can work out those little details.” He takes out a stubby and pops off the lid. I admit I was a bit surprised when I first saw that Uncle Ron drinks beer. I’m not even sure why, except that alcohol is forbidden on the mission (although I have mates who break this rule). But Uncle Ron usually has only one or two before dinner. I’ve never seen him slaughtered or tanked or anything disrespectful. I think it’s just his way of chilling out after a long day.
Aunt Lori nods victoriously. “Yes, I’m sure that we can. Can’t we, Hannah?”
And so it seems my fate is sealed. I promise my aunt that I’ll go shopping with her tomorrow. “Just a few things.” I look back at the pool to hide my nervousness. “And, please, not the shopping center where Vanessa took me today.”
“Why not?” asks Vanessa. She is flopped down on their enormous, oversized leather sectional, absently flipping through the millions of channels they receive on their flat-screen plasma telly that takes up half the wall.
“Because I don’t need fancy designer clothes. I just need something suitable for work.”
Aunt Lori pats my back. “Don’t worry, Hannah. You’ll be in good hands with me.”
Vanessa just laughs. “Yeah, right, Mom. You have okay taste for an old lady, but you’re totally clueless when it comes to — ”
“An old lady?” Thankfully, Aunt Lori is now distracted from me as she emphatically defends her youth to her seventeen-year-old daughter.
“Anyone mind if I take a dip in the pool?” I ask, not wishing to get caught in a fight over whether Aunt Lori is really an old bag or not.
“Nice to see someone’s using the pool,” calls Uncle Ron as he heads off to his office. He spends most of his spare time in there. I’m not sure if he’s actually working or just escaping the bickering between his wife and daughter. And since I’ve witnessed how they can really get into it over practically nothing, I just want to rack off sometimes too. Like now. It’s not that I don’t understand. I reckon my mum and I have had our fair share of fights, but not living with your parents can spare you a lot of arguing.
I go upstairs to the guest room that I’m using this summer. They gave me my pick, and I chose the smallest one because it felt cozier, plus it has a view of the pool. And although it is the smallest, it’s about twice as big as the dorm room I have back home, which I share with three other girls! In addition to that, it also has its own “bathroom” that not only has a bath and shower, but the dunny and sink are actually in there too. So American!
I tug on my still-damp bathers that I forgot to hang up after my morning swim. And once again, I’m caught off guard by the large mirrors on the closet doors. I’m unaccustomed to seeing my whole self l
ike this. And so I just stand there a moment and stare — and after feeling like such a misfit at the shops today, I take a sort of physical inventory of myself.
Aunt Lori’s right — I am quite tall at five foot ten (U.S. measurements — see, I’m already making the leap away from metrics. Oh, my primary school math teacher would be so proud!). That makes me nearly six inches taller than Vanessa. And although I’m thin, I’m not nearly as skinny as I used to be. In fact, I was quite relieved when I finally got breasts last year. I honestly thought I might never get any Even Sophie (my best mate in PNG) was worried for me. So at least I have a bit of a figure now, even if I’m not the hottest chick around. And I am nicely tanned. Both my cousin and aunt were impressed with that. Despite worries about cancer, tanned skin is still desirable here in the States, although I’ve heard that some people get it spray painted on or go into some kind of a booth with light bulbs, which I do find rather curious. Not that I can help being tanned, coming from a place where it’s constantly like summertime.
Vanessa and I used to have the same color hair — my mum called it honey blonde. But as I got older, my hair got darker. And although it lightens with the sun — especially on the ends, which nearly reach my midback — my hair is more of a dusty brown color than anything else. Rather boring, actually. But Vanessa confessed that she gets hers professionally highlighted, so she looks more like a blonde than ever. I have to admit it looks quite nice on her and fairly natural too. But then, she has blue eyes, whereas I have green. So perhaps I’m destined to have boring brown hair.
Finally I tell myself that I am who I am, take it or leave it, and that standing here in my damp bathers (which, as Vanessa was quick to point out, have seen better days considering the spot on my bum that has worn rather thin) and obsessing about my appearance is not going to change a thing. So I grab a big, thick towel, wrap it around myself, slip on my rubber thongs, and hurry downstairs. Vanessa is absorbed in one of those reality shows that I frankly find either terribly boring or completely disgusting. In fact, I already told her that if she wants to see people eating grubs, she should come to New Guinea. It’s no big deal there.
The big fancy kitchen, which I’ve discovered gets little use for actual cooking, is, as usual, vacant. I’m not sure where Aunt Lori is, but I know that she doesn’t even think about tea (or what they call dinner) until nearly seven, and often she just orders take-away. But I have been trying to help out as much as possible. And I think my aunt appreciates it, since Vanessa is quite an expert at slacking.
I go outside where the temperature is about twenty degrees hotter than the air-conditioned house. Feeling chilled from my damp bathers, I find a lounge chair that’s been baking in the sun and slowly lower myself down onto it, taking a sharp breath as my body sinks into the heat.
And there I lie until my skin begins to feel hot and prickly. The heat in Southern California is different than in New Guinea due to the humidity. Apparently Los Angeles was created on an arid desert. Water gets pumped here through aqueducts from hundreds of miles away. So although there is green grass and foliage and trees, the air remains quite dry. In PNG, everything is saturated with moisture. You can’t leave a pair of damp canvas shoes in the closet for more than a day before spectacular forms of mold take over. That’s why rubber thongs are so popular. And dry foods will go bad if they’re not properly stored in airtight containers. Even tinned food can rust. It’s just very, very moist, even during the dry season.
During the wet season, it rains every day at about the same time in the afternoon. But I actually love those rains. To me they are a cleansing, cooling time. And when the sun comes out, the world looks washed and new and ready to go on. My dad says it rains in Southern California too and that it can even flood here, but I think that must be quite rare. I don’t recall having seen it for myself.
Finally it feels as if my skin is actually sizzling. Even my bathers are dry as a biscuit now. Feeling thirsty and hot, I tiptoe across the sun-baked deck, then climb onto the diving board and stare down at the crystal-clear water below me. This immaculate pool with its tiled deck is maintained by a pool guy who never wears a shirt but apparently knows his business because, as usual, it shimmers like polished turquoise. Perfection.
After a couple of tentative bounces on the springy board, I go up into the air and plunge into the water, splattering its perfect surface with a rather sloppy dive, I’m afraid. And as I swim beneath the cool layers of water, I think that perhaps this will be a great summer after all.
When I finally come up for air, I notice that Vanessa has decided to join me for a swim. Only she’s not alone. I don’t know the girl who’s arranging a spot on a lounge chair with her, but I suspect it might be Elisa Rodriguez, since her hair is shiny black and she appears to be Hispanic — and beautiful. But what really gets my attention is how both of these girls look absolutely fabulous in their tiny bathers (bikinis, actually) and oversized sunnies (which Yanks call sunglasses or shades or dark-glasses — I’m never sure of the correct lingo) and brightly colored sandals, which probably cost a week’s worth of my soon-to-be wages. Or more.
Honestly, everything about these girls looks unbelievably expensive — their hair, their teeth, their tans, their jewelry. It probably adds up to thousands, and they’re not even dressed! They both look incredibly perfect, like something you see on the telly or in a slick magazine. And I am reminded once again of how I really don’t fit in around here at all. I’m like a reffo, and I’m afraid it’s going to be a very long summer.
three
I WAKE UP VERY EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING. AFTER TWO WEEKS, I think I’m still on PNG time. But realizing that I’ll be getting up early next week for my new job anyway, I decide to just “surf the lag,” as my dad likes to say. He never gets concerned about jet lag. He says if he’s awake, he might as well enjoy being awake — using the quiet time to pray or read. And if he’s sleepy, he tries to slip in a nap when no one is looking. “No worries.”
So it is that I decide to surf the lag myself. I tiptoe downstairs at five a.m. and search about the bookshelves until I find a paperback, which happens to be an adventure story about sharks (or after darks, as we sometimes call them). I suspect this book must belong to my uncle because I’m sure, after reading the sensational back cover, that it’s too gory for either Vanessa or Aunt Lori. But it appeals to me. So I sit down and read. Before long I’ve read several chapters, and the story is quite enthralling, which is why I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear Uncle Ron saying, “Good morning.”
“Oh!” I take a recovery breath as I close the book and look up at him.
He nods to the paperback and laughs. “Pretty scary stuff, huh?”
“I reckon. Have you read it?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to go anywhere near the ocean for several weeks after.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Want some coffee? Or maybe that Aussie influence turned you into a tea drinker?”
“I like both, actually. Most of my mates only drink tea. But we had a Yankee couple as house parents a couple years back. Alex and Callie were newlyweds from Seattle, Washington.”
“Coffee capital of the universe.”
“That’s what they told us. And they had packages of Starbucks beans shipped every month. By the time their one-year stint was up, a couple of us had become regular coffee addicts.”
He laughs as he heads into the kitchen.
“Fortunately, they left their coffee machine behind, and the grinder too, although the grinder broke down last year.”
“You should take another one back with you. We might even have a spare we don’t need.”
I set the book aside and follow him, noticing how much he looks like my dad from the back. They have the same shuffling way of walking. Seeing that makes me miss my parents. “Were you and Dad close when you were younger?” I ask as I perch myself on one of the comfortable padded stools at the brek-kie bar.
“Well, Rick is five years o
lder, you know, and when we were growing up, it seemed like a fairly wide gap to me. But I always looked up to him. I guess I admired your dad a lot.”
“What did you think when he decided to become a missionary?”
“At first I was pretty surprised.” He pushes the button on their coffeemaker and waits for the loud grinding of the beans to finish. Then he turns back to me. “Oh, I knew that Rick took his religion very seriously, but I just didn’t think he’d take it that far. But I was in high school by then, and I was into sports and girls and partying and — ” he stops himself, embarrassed, I think. “Well, you know how it goes, Hannah.” Then he frowns. “Or maybe you don’t.”
I laugh. “Actually, I do. I reckon most people assume that MKs are just like their parents. But let me tell you, it’s not always like that. Some of the kids back on base go ga-ga as soon as they hit high school.”
“What do they do that’s so ga-ga?” He leans forward with interest.
“Well, they smoke their cancer sticks and drink their beer. Some even get into drugs.”
“Where do missionary kids get drugs?”
I shrug. “Where does anyone get drugs?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Then he frowns slightly. “But you’re not into any of that, are you?”
“No way. I think drugs are absolutely crazy. Why would you want to mess with your mind like that? I happen to think God gave me a pretty good mind without mucking it up with some weird chemicals.”
“How about your brothers? Did they ever do any wild things? They seem like such responsible young men.”
“Well, you probably never heard about how Mark went slightly bonkers during his first year of college. His grades were so far up the creek that I don’t know how he kept from getting suspended. But then he got off his bum, and he even made the dean’s list this year.”
“That’s great.”
“My parents were pretty relieved.”
“And I heard your brothers are both taking summer classes.”
“Yeah, Dad and Mum plan to visit them when they’re in Dallas next month. I’m trying not to be too jealous, but if I earn enough money, maybe I’ll be able to fly out there in the fall. Matthew is certain that I should go to school there too.”
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