by Ash Harlow
Fuck.
My mind won’t settle and think logically.
Dinner looks prepared. There are pots with food on the range that look ready to heat. I keep thinking she’s needed to pick up something from the store, or run an errand for someone, but her fucking car is still in the garage.
I pull a beer from the fridge, flip the top and take a long drink. There’s Rachel’s schoolbag on the floor, which means Ginger has been home since she dropped Rachel off at the wharf. There are papers on the counter.
It feels as though time has slowed as I reach for the document that’s caught my attention because the forest graphic along the top featuring the koru and harakeke plants tells me exactly what I’m looking at. It’s Rachel’s birth certificate.
This is a monumental clusterfuck.
Ginger’s read this and drawn the only possible conclusion. My mouth is dry, my feeling of loss immense because I have no idea how we’re going to come back from this. I’ve managed Rachel’s existence for five years, exactly as I promised I would. Today, management failed.
All I can hope is that Ginger has gone to Darcy. I grab my phone and call Oliver, walking as I talk, searching the house for more clues.
“Are you at home?” I bark when he answers the phone. Now is not the time for niceties.
“Good evening to you, too, Luther. How are you?” Oliver’s voice is typically smooth.
“Fuck off, Oliver, this is an emergency.”
“Okay. Yes, I’m home.”
“With Darcy?”
“Yes.”
“Have you seen Ginger?”
There’s a pause. “No, she’s not here,” he says cautiously. “What’s happened?”
My pacing has taken me past the dining room where the table is set with candles and flowers in preparation for our dinner.
“I’ve just got back from Auckland. Ginger’s not here and Rachel’s birth certificate is on the kitchen counter.”
“Oh, fuck.”
“Yes, Oliver. Oh, fuck. Ginger’s car is still here and, hang on a minute.” I run back to the garage. Typical Ginger. “Her bike’s gone,” I say.
“I hope she left before the rain.”
I remember the person I saw cycling out near the airfield. Fluoro-green jacket. “No, she didn’t. Call me if you hear from her. I’m going to search.”
I end the call, grab my car keys, and the only thing I can be thankful for is that she was heading in the opposite direction to her mother’s house.
33 ~ GINGER
It’s strange how rain that will drench and freeze you on one day is such a comfort on another. It blankets my misery, obliterates my tears and makes me invisible.
Rage and hurt flow through me in a perpetual cycle, keeping pace with every rotation of the bike pedals. Right foot down, pushing away the rage, immediately creating an empty place that fills with pain. Left foot down, pushing away the hurt, the space refilling with rage. Endless, high-rotate cycle of misery
My heart thumps wildly in my chest, and I gulp air and rain in huge sobs.
Everything has been a lie.
Cars pass by and I welcome every spray of water thrown up by their wheels. I want to be wet and cold, but inside me I’m on fire. I finally reach the place I’m heading for by the river and park my bike against the massive Lover’s Rock that towers over me. A narrow path winds to the summit where lovers have met in secret for more than a century. There’s a small cave here, only a few feet square where I can shelter. Inside it’s littered with cigarette butts, empty beer cans, and the stench of urine.
There are probably rats about, too, but I don’t care. I need time to think, away from opinions and manipulation.
Rachel is my niece. This is the only part of what’s taking place that fills me with excitement. Everything else is dread. And fucked up.
If I went back to Ormidale now, before Luther arrives home, I could try to pretend everything was normal. Then, once Rachel has returned, I could take her. Monday, when she was supposed to be at school, I could put her in a car and drive far away.
Except, I have very little money. And kidnapping a child from her father could land me in prison. Rachel’s life is already disturbed enough. I can’t do that to her, and I don’t intend to break the law. I intend to use it to help me.
I’m sure a judge would look kindly at my side of this situation. Luther never cared for Rachel for the first five years of her life. Wouldn’t her life be more stable in the care of her aunty rather than a string of nannies?
I think of Luther and my heart crumples in on itself. Our brief relationship resembles a supernova burning bright, fast, and destructive.
The headlights of a car edging slowly along the road distract me. This is a quiet area, no through road, and very few houses. I tuck myself tighter into the small, stinking cave. The vehicle comes to a stop and I realize the light on the rear of my bike is still flashing red, and the vehicle belongs to Luther.
I glance around the tiny cave. Outside it’s pouring with rain but inside this cave I’m trapped. There are trails nearby that lead into the bush. They’re wide enough for a bike, but not for Luther’s vehicle. All I want to do is get as far away from him as possible. I duck outside to run to my bike. Over the rain I hear the sound of the vehicle door closing and see the dark shape running towards me.
The rain hits my head in thick drops. My helmet is back in the cave but I don’t have time to get it. I swing my leg over the bike seat. My front light is switched off but there’s no time to turn it on even if I can’t see much on the path ahead.
Luther calls my name, and adrenaline helps me pedal faster. I hear my name again just as my front wheel hits something solid, slips sideways and I fall, hitting the ground with a force that knocks the wind from me. I can’t do anything but try to get air into my lungs.
“Jesus, Ginger, are you hurt?”
I can’t answer, I still can’t breathe. Inside me is a bottleneck of words and curses trying to get out, but I need air to talk. “Winded,” I finally manage to rasp to him.
Strong hands grasp my shoulders and he rolls me into a crouch. He leans in beside me. “Stay in this position. It’ll help release the spasm in your diaphragm.”
How does he know these things?
“It’s a common injury that happens all the time in rugby,” he continues as though he just read my mind. “You’ll be able to breathe better soon. Does anything else hurt?’
Physically, no. Emotionally my heart is crushed. I shake my head. He’s right. In this position my breathing gradually eases. We’re both squatting in the rain and I guess Luther notices I’m breathing better because he stands, and guides me to my feet.
“Don’t rush it,” he says, all business. “Are you sure nothing else hurts?”
“Sure,” I manage.
“You scared the fucking life out of me, taking off in the dark on your bike without even a headlamp. With all the rain, that trail would be slippery enough in daylight. You could have gone over the bank and into the river.”
He continues to lecture me about the danger I’d put myself in, but I’m not really listening.
“Take your hand off me, please,” I say.
“Not if you’re intending to run off.”
“I’m not, but I want to check my bike.”
“Leave it. I’ll put it in the back of the SUV. You’re not going any further on a bike, in the dark, in this weather.”
“You don’t ever get to tell me what I can and can’t do, Luther. You have destroyed me.”
He turns me and presses my face tightly into his chest. “I haven’t, Ginger. I’ve protected you, and I’ve protected Rachel, and I’ll tell you the entire story, but we’re not going to drown in this rain while we’re doing that. Come on, let’s get you in the car, then I’ll load your bike. Please, Ginger, hear me out.”
I let him lead me to the car because I’m out of options for the moment and I get the feeling he’s going to follow me wherever I go tonight.
By the time he has the bike in the SUV, and he’s in the driver’s seat, my teeth are chattering from the wet, the cold, the shock and adrenaline.
“Do you want to see a doctor?”
His face is without a mask, troubled and anxious.
“I don’t need a doctor. I need an explanation.”
“You’ll get that but we need to attend to your immediate physical needs.”
We drive back to Ormidale in cold silence. I imagine he’s thinking up a story to smooth out this mess. One where he’ll come out looking good and my family will be the crazy ones as usual. The fuck-ups. The not-good-enough Houghs.
The minute we’re inside the house he starts to peel off my clothes. “I can do this,” I say, turning away from him.
“You’re hurting. And you don’t know the full story. I know you’ve seen Rachel’s birth certificate, but everything’s not as it seems on that piece of paper.”
“Do not fucking lie to me tonight, Luther.” My voice is as icy as my mood.
“I’m not lying to you.”
I’m angry that his voice gets to stay level because he holds all the cards right now.
I gather up my wet clothes and take them to the laundry. Luther is one step behind me the whole way. I leave the laundry and head up the stairs. “I’m going to take a shower to try to warm up.”
He doesn’t answer, just comes into the bathroom and sits on the edge of the bath.
“I don’t need you here as I shower. You’re making me feel like a prisoner.”
“I need to be here,” he says.
It takes minutes before the heat from the water starts to penetrate my cold layers of skin. I stay under the stream for as long as it takes to warm me, then step out.
Luther stands and wraps me in a towel. Again, he pulls me to his chest and we breathe together in silence. I want to hate him, but that resolve crumbles in his presence. He releases me from his hold and I stand like a child as he dries me. When he’s finished, he kisses the top of my head.
“Whatever happens tonight, Ginger, I want you to know that I love you.”
I add those words to the rubble of my heart because there’s nothing else I can do with them. This morning, that admission would have had me in a state of euphoria, now it simply adds to everything I’m about to lose.
“I’ll be in the sitting room. Come downstairs when you’re ready,” he says, and leaves the bathroom.
I feel like an insect in a bucket. No matter which way I turn, no matter how far I crawl, there is no escaping this pain I feel.
34 ~ LUTHER
I pour myself a scotch, and make a brandy and soda for Ginger. The house has underfloor heating, and is warm, but I light a fire.
Ginger appears and sits in a large armchair by the fire. She does anything but make eye contact.
“Were you going to lie to Rachel and me forever?” She’s staring into the flames.
“No, I wasn’t, but that’s easy to say now. I don’t expect you to believe me.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I don’t. Can you begin to imagine how hurt I am?”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder, I’m sure you’re not there yet.”
It doesn’t matter what she says, she can’t hurt me as much as I’ve hurt her, and that makes me feel like an asshole. I push on, she doesn’t have any facts and I’m not sure if they’re going to make things better for her or not, but she needs to have something concrete to build her anger on.
“First up, I want you to know that I’m not Rachel’s father.” Now I get some eye contact.
“But, her birth certificate?”
“My name is on there to protect her. I’ll tell you the story of Vanessa and Rachel and you stop me at any time to ask questions.” I pull the other armchair up close so that our knees are all but touching. I take a good slug of scotch and start my story.
“I met Vanessa in Auckland when I was in my last year at law school. I was living in a shitty house in Grafton, filled with young men away from home for the first time in their lives. Many behaved like animals.”
***
Nine Years Ago
I’ve spent the last forty hours cramming for my final exams. My eyes feel as though I’ve been held down while someone poured sand into them. My mouth and gut don’t feel much better. I haven’t seen the outside of the study hall since Thursday and all I want is sleep.
Fat fucking chance.
Back at the crumbling, three-storeyed gothic monstrosity that houses twenty male students (legally), but usually double that number, there’s a Friday night party in full swing. You can feel the bass boom from the street. I eye the front door that’s wide open. I’m not walking into that debauched chaos so I duck around to the side path, past the overflowing trash cans and hoist myself onto the fire escape. All I need to do is get to my room on the second floor without anyone spotting me. Then I can barricade myself in. Despite the party, I’ll sleep. I have earplugs and exhaustion on my side.
Light spills out from beneath my bedroom, door which pisses me off. Sounds coming from inside the room suggest my bed is in use. Assholes.
Throwing the door open reveals a tangle of naked bodies. Three guys, one woman.
“Out of here, you fuckers,” I yell.
They’re all laughing drunk.
“Luther, you wanker. Get your cock out and get over here.”
I ignore the guy who spoke. Seb Crocker. I hate the prick and he’s always the ringleader in this sort of shit. Bringing girls back, getting them drunk because they have to be intoxicated to agree to let him touch them. I wrestle with the window until it’s wide open then start gathering their gear as they laugh and throw insults at me.
I’ve got an armful of clothes, phones and shoes, and I’m holding them out the window. “On the count of five, this lot drops two storeys into the fucking trash that hasn’t been put on the street for collection this week.”
“Come on, Luther. Don’t be an asshole.”
“Use your own rooms. Five.”
“Look, we’ve got the lovely Nessie here ready to service all of us.”
“Four,” I count. I fucking mean it, and they know it.
“You’re a prick.”
“That’s right. Three.”
They disentangle. Crocker approaches and tries to grab his phone.
“Get into the hallway and I’ll give you your gear,” I say. “Two.”
They scramble and I throw their clothes after them.
“Come on, Nessie,” one of them calls to the girl who’s struggling to pull her dress over her head.
“Thanks, asshole, you’ve lost me two hundred bucks,” she says, searching for her shoe.
“It’s in the corner,” I say.
She finds it, pulls it on, looks at me. “Oh, shit. Luther.”
“Vanessa? Fuck. What the hell are you doing with those jerks?”
“Nice to see you, too. Goodnight,” she says, pushing past me, but I grab her arm. She looks at my hand then back at me. “Don’t touch unless you’re paying, got it?”
“Paying? What the fuck do you mean by paying?”
“Times are tough, scholar. I gotta make rent. See ya.”
I watch her skinny ass leave my room, listening to the laughter as the group moves along the hallway to find another vacant room. I strip the sheets from the bed and, too tired to do anything else, find a sleeping bag, crawl inside and sleep.
I sleep twelve hours straight. When I wake the following afternoon, when all I should be concerned about is my final exams, I start the process of tracking down Vanessa.
***
“And, you found her?” Ginger asks.
“I did. We met for coffee. You’ve got to understand, she was a mess. She’d been in a car accident about 18 months earlier. Cracked a couple of vertebrae, ruptured her spleen, which they removed, and she was left in chronic pain. She became hooked on the painkillers and once they switched her from the opiates to over-the-counter
meds, she bought her opiates on the street. Usual downward spiral. She ends up in debt and starts working in the massage parlors. It took three years and two stints in rehab for her to get clean, but I was there for her, every week until I took over Dad’s law practice in Waitapu. After that, we talked regularly on the phone, and we caught up when I was in Auckland.”
“Why didn’t she just come back to Waitapu? We could have taken care of her here.”
“I tried to get her to do that, but she refused to return. There was no love lost between your mother and Ness I’m afraid, Ginger.”
She sips her drink. “I know, but I could have helped.”
“You were in high school. She asked after you all the time. She used to say that she hated Waitapu. But I don’t think that was really the issue, and I don’t think she hated our town. Vanessa was ashamed of what her life had become. She felt a failure, even when she got her life back on track. Holding down a full-time job was difficult. She struggled to concentrate after the accident. But she did work, and we got her a nice place to live, and I topped up her bank account so long as she stayed off the drugs.”
“Did you have a relationship with her?”
“I cared for Vanessa the way I care for my brothers and sisters. She and I had grown up together, hung out with the same crowd at school. When I came across her in Auckland, she was alone, and, I’m sorry to say, pretty fucked-up. I could easily have walked away but I could tell she hadn’t reached that point of no return. Her lifestyle was dangerous, but so long as she wanted to change, I was prepared to help her.”
“So you never had sex? Not even one drunken night?”
“No. We had a lot of cups of tea, and some rough times when it all seemed too hard for her, but there was nothing physical or intimate between us.”
I give Ginger time to take all of this in because she needs to understand the type of relationship I had with her sister. After a while she nods and I take that as my signal to carry on. “Her biggest fear was that you’d turn out like her, so I kept an eye on you growing up. At fifteen you were hanging out with that wild crowd and you were caught painting graffiti on the Scout hall. I got the cops to give you a fright, but not to charge you.”