Fruitful asked, “Is this really just for him? That’s so … extra-nice.”
“It’s cool,” I said. “That’s what you say, Outside. It’s cool.”
“Oh,” Fruitful said doubtfully. “It’s a bedroom, though. Shouldn’t it be warm?”
“If it was mine,” Obedience said, “I’d make it prettier. I’d put some flowers in, maybe.” She trailed to a stop after that, because she had no idea how you actually did make a room prettier. You could say that Mount Zion didn’t go much for ornamentation. The girls would never have seen so much as a throw pillow.
Not that this room had any of those. It looked, in fact, like a luxury version of a monk’s cell. It was painted white, like the rest of the house, and the bed, which sat on a black-and-gray-patterned carpet, faced another full wall of windows. The bed had a chunky black leather footboard and headboard, and the simple gray tables on either end held nothing but industrial-chic chrome lights on swinging arms. The sheets were white, the duvet cover was gray, and an enormous photo took up most of the wall space above the bed. Printed in black and white, it showed a mirror-smooth lake, a lone willow tree growing out of the water, and a dark outline of hills and suggestion of silvery mountains in the background. The focus, though, was the tree: the delicate tracery and sinuous shape of the willow’s limbs and trunk reflected in the water beneath, as graceful as if it had been grown that way on purpose by a bonsai artist.
What kind of man had a photo of the Wanaka Tree as his only decoration? I’d have expected an image of the mountains themselves, stark and bold, rather than this kind of elegant simplicity. Not to mention the symbolism.
The girls didn’t notice it, because they didn’t know about the Wanaka Tree. They’d grown up a few kilometers from the lake, and yet they knew so little. The world could be overwhelming, though, if you looked at it all at once. Like looking at the sun.
“Get out of your clothes, and I’ll wash them as you sleep,” I said, instead of talking about all of it: the escape, the past, the future, the family. Time enough for that. I wished so much, though, that I had other things for them to wear. I’d meant to take them back to Dunedin with me as soon as I got them out, putting distance between them and … the others. I’d meant to kit them out with some of my own things there until we could shop. It hadn’t happened, though, so it was time for Plan B, which was putting the uniform back on again and going outside that way, much too close to Mount Zion, branded with its stamp. A thought to make you shiver.
They stripped down with no modesty, because we’d all grown up dressing and undressing, washing and showering, around each other and every other girl and woman on our floor. We knew from the time we were tiny how a pregnant woman’s body changed, and what she looked like after the baby was born. We knew how the pregnancy happened, for that matter, at least more or less. Hard to avoid it when your family lived in a single room, and harder for me than most, as I was the eldest. Not that there was much to see. It happened under the covers, in the dark, and it was over fast.
I’d grown up, though, on women’s stories and women’s confidences. I stood there, now, in my borrowed dressing gown, and watched the girls take off their layers. Loose brown dresses with high necks and long sleeves, white aprons, white caps, white socks, white cotton undies of the type you’d be embarrassed to wear if you were a grandma, and white bras of the decidedly utilitarian type. I piled everything near the door and wished I could burn it, along with the shoes, or possibly personally toss it onto a landfill site and watch it being covered by banana skins, and said, “Come take a shower.”
They weren’t as awed as I’d been by the bathroom, which surprised me. And then Fruitful started turning on taps and said, “How do you aim them? The low ones are for kids, I guess, but how do you make both of you get wet? Squash up with me, Obedience.”
I looked at the red stripes of bruising on Fruitful’s bum, thought how glad I was that Gray had brought his shovel along, wished he’d been able to use it more, decided to focus on the positive, and told her the awful truth. “They’re all for one person, love.”
The two of them stared at the eight water sources, then looked at me uncomprehendingly. “They can’t be,” Obedience said. “These ones are too low. They must be for kids, even though he doesn’t have any. But you’d build your bathroom ready for kids even if you hadn’t been blessed yet, I guess.”
Fruitful said nothing, and I said, “No. This is what’s called a master bath. Which means for the master bedroom. It’s only meant for two people, or in Gray’s case, one. You don’t always share, Outside. And the low showerheads are to wash the lower parts of you.”
Both girls stared at me, now, as if I’d just casually told them that everybody Outside engaged in orgies whilst sacrificing a goat and summoning the Devil. I said, fighting a desperate desire to giggle, “It feels quite nice, actually,” and Obedience actually backed away from my possibly contaminated presence. I stepped into the multiple sprays for the second time that night and demonstrated. “You can wash and rinse off so easily,” I said, pulling the sprayer wand down. “Extra aim, see?”
Obedience said, “That’s … it’s … it’s sinful. Do they really let you just sin, then? Outside?”
Fruitful said, “Well, yes. Obviously. That’s the whole point, that we get to sin.”
This time, I did laugh. “No,” I said, “it’s not sinning, because pleasure isn’t sin. Come on.” I moved behind them and turned on one more tap, the one to the bath. “I’m going to climb in here, though, now that I’ve washed the mud off.” It was a bit bold, maybe, getting into a man’s bath—all right, a lot bold—but I was willing to bet that Gray never used it.
Just his female guests, the insidious voice at the back of my mind whispered.
I shut that voice out. I was going to take a bath, and I was going to enjoy it. I wasn’t going to believe that my pleasure was a sin. I refused.
13
Water Over Stones
Daisy
When Gray came in the door again, a little after noon, he was … well, gray. That was the only word to describe it.
The dog sensed him first. The ute must’ve still been streets away when she pelted to the front window, let out a couple deep-throated, joyous barks, and started swinging that otter’s tail like mad. By the time Gray came through the door, she was quivering with excitement. He gave her a pat and a word, got his boots off with hands that looked clumsy for the first time since I’d met him, and stood up, bracing himself against the wall as he did it. Not like him at all.
I said, “What is it?”
“Pardon?” He dropped his hand and stood straight. “Girls still asleep, then?”
“Yes. Never mind. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Migraine again, that’s all. Still. Whatever.”
The dog whined softly, and no wonder. I asked, “Did you take another tablet?”
He tried to smile. “What are you, my mum?”
“No. I’m a nurse who knows sickness and pain when she sees it, and I see both.”
“Yes, I took another tablet. Doesn’t seem to be doing the business. Odd.”
He was still just standing there. “Big, tough men,” I told him, “are the worst patients in the world. Come on. Upstairs.”
He blinked at me. He looked like blinking hurt. I said, “Upstairs.”
Gray
The migraine was all but blinding me, and the world was spinning. I stumbled on the stairs, and Daisy took my arm. She was wearing her jeans again. The tight ones. They looked good. I could see enough for that. I said, “Where are … the girls?”
“Asleep. I said that already. Don’t talk.” She opened a door. I wanted to tell her it was my mum’s, but before I could, she said, “I knew she’d have flowered prints,” closed it, opened another, said, “Bath. Huh,” and finally, on the third try, got the guest room.
“You didn’t even pull the duvet back,” she said after she maneuvered me over to the bed, and the dog followed
. “What kind of nap was that?”
“I was … busy. Things to do. How can you … tell?”
“Imprint on the fabric. Wait.” I stood there, and she pulled the coverings back, waited for me to sit down, and said, “Trousers.”
“Bloody hell,” I said, grabbing her hands as she went for my belt buckle. “No. It’s a migraine, not a stroke.”
“Fine,” she said, and stood back a pace. “You do it. Though you took my jeans off.”
“That’s different,” I said. “I’m the man.” It made perfect sense to me, but it made her snort, so maybe not. I got my jeans off, told her, “Stop peeking,” thought about how I never left things in heaps on the floor, left them in a heap on the floor anyway, lay down, felt the jolt all the way through my head like a spear through my brain, and put a forearm over my eyes.
“Light hurts, eh,” she said, slipping off my socks, then pulling the duvet over me.
“Yeh.” That was all I managed.
She fumbled beside my head. I could feel her warmth there, and I could smell her, too, clean skin and a faint hint of spice and sweetness from my shampoo. “I’ve turned on the electric blanket,” she told me. “The heat will help relax your muscles. Hang on a minute, and I’ll get you more comfortable.”
“My shampoo’s … no good for your pretty hair,” I said, keeping my eyes closed. “It’s for … Islander hair. Coarse, eh.” Her hair was nearly black, like mine, but so shiny it gleamed, and just a bit wavy, falling below her shoulders. It had been the first time I’d seen it dry, was why I’d noticed.
“I imagine I’ll survive,” she said. I could feel her leave the room, the change in the air as if the warmth had gone, and I wanted her back. I was cold and sick despite the duvet, and I breathed in and out, forcing myself to count the breaths, to fight back the dizziness.
The bed gradually warmed underneath me, but I was still cold. So cold. Somewhere close by, the dog whined softly.
The air changed again, and Daisy was sitting beside me on the bed, laying something over my eyes. A cold, wrung-out facecloth, I thought. She asked, “Better?”
“Yeh.” I hadn’t realized how much darker it could be behind my eyes, or how much more comfortable that darkness would feel.
She said, “You’re still holding yourself stiff. Can I turn up the heat on the bed?”
“Yeh,” I said again. “But you should be … cold yourself. You were in the … river.”
“I had a lovely long bath, though, in your beautiful tub.” She had her fingertips under the cold cloth and was massaging my temples now. “Somebody told me that I should have a bath, that it would warm me up and make me feel better. He was right. Smart fella. Kind, too, maybe.”
I didn’t answer. Her hands felt too good. After a minute, though, I said, “You didn’t … sleep enough.”
Her fingers kept going on my temples, slow and rhythmic and with plenty of pressure. “Nah. I’m used to it. Nurses, eh. Got to have the endurance of a mule to be a nurse. I slept a few hours, and I’ll sleep more tonight.”
“You’re not a … mule. Arabian, maybe. Arabians have … endurance. And they’re beautiful.” The bed was warming under me, and the cold against my closed eyes soothed the pain. She hummed and kept up the steady pressure that took the hurt away, and I said, “Talk to me. Tell me what you’ll do. With the girls.”
“You sure? You need to sleep.”
“I like your voice.”
“All right.” Her hip was warm beside mine, though she couldn’t be taking up much space on the bed, small as she was. My head was full of the clean scent of her and the idea of how she’d look over me, if I could see her. Though if I could see her, there was no way she’d be over me. She was here now, though, and I wanted to keep her here. Her voice was clear and bright, like water over the stones in a mountain stream after the snow melts, and I let it flow over and through me and let it all go. The night. The day. The problems and the complications and the responsibility.
“I rang my brother,” she said. “Dorian. I told him what I’d done. He’ll take off work tomorrow, come and get us.”
“I’ll take you,” I said. “First thing in the morning.”
“Mm,” she said. “We’ll talk about it later. And what will I do? I’ll help the girls get something new to wear, first of all, because the sooner they’re out of those dresses, the better. I wish we could start that today, but tomorrow will have to do, when I’ve got myself a new EFTPOS card. We’ll do trousers, because trousers are a big step. Pretty shirts, maybe a couple of cute little tees, and possibly even a skirt. One that stops above your knee. They have pretty legs. They should know it.”
“If they’re like you,” I said, “I’m sure they do.”
“Razors as well,” she said. “Shaving your legs, your underarms, or better yet, later on, waxing. Waxing’s brilliant, when you’ve never done it. It hurts so much the first time, but afterwards, you look like you never imagined you could. So smooth. So clean. So beautiful. You could think that’s unfeminist, but I like to think feminism is about choice, and choice is one of my favorite things. And I choose smooth.”
I didn’t say anything, because I couldn’t think of anything one bit appropriate to say on the subject. I remembered what she looked like naked. Perfectly. Smooth worked for me.
“Cute little canvas trainers, too, maybe,” she went on, “the kind with a bit of edge to them. With toe caps, in a bright color that they can choose. And something with a heel. A little bit high, if they want. I want to show them that they can have some style. You can only wear one kind of shoes at Mount Zion, if you’re a woman. You saw them. You can only wear one kind of dress, too, and you’ve seen that as well. You’re covered neck to wrists to ankles, all day and all night, and nobody can really tell what’s under that brown dress and that apron. I want them to see that their shape is beautiful, and that being beautiful isn’t wicked or prideful, it’s enjoying the body God gave you. If you believe God did give it.”
“You don’t?” I was still following her, if somewhat hazily.
“I don’t know what I believe anymore.” Her fingers were still on my temples, and they helped so much, the relief made me want to weep. Weakness, and no mistake. She went on, “Except that I do, I guess. I believe in kindness, mostly. In service given from a glad heart, not because you’re being made to. I believe in using all my gifts, in enduring what I have to. In being as happy as I possibly can, and sharing that happiness. Somebody told me, after I left Mount Zion, when I was trying to sort out what I did and didn’t believe once all the punishment and fear were stripped away, that if you substituted the word ‘Good’ for ‘God,’ you could say almost any prayer. So that’s what I believe. I believe in goodness. I believe in compassion, and in human dignity. I even believe in forgiveness. Technically, anyway. I haven’t managed it yet, but I also believe in trying, so … maybe someday.”
“They say,” I said, “that holding onto hatred only hurts the hater. Some things may be beyond forgiveness, all the same.”
“Yeh,” she said. “That’s my problem. Especially if you don’t just hurt me, you hurt other people, too.”
“People you love.”
Silence for a minute, then she said, “Can you love someone, though, who you don’t know anymore? And …” She trailed off.
“And what? You can tell me. After what we’ve been through, surely you can do that.”
I heard the breath she took, and I heard the pained honesty in her next words, too. “What if the answer is no? And you’ve taken it on anyway?”
I reached a hand up and took her wrist, and her fingers stilled. I couldn’t see her, but I could feel her, the strength and the tension in her. I said, “Love’s a skill, maybe, not just a feeling. And you’ve got that skill.”
Another frozen moment when I wished I could see her, and then her fingers started up again and she said, “You’ve only just met me.”
When you hurt enough, when you’re tired enough, your defenses
fall away and you’re left with nothing but the emotions curled up inside you, naked and vulnerable as a baby. I was there now, and I thought maybe she was, too. The tenderness was an ache in my chest, and I kept her wrist in my hand, felt the fineness of the bones and the steadiness of the pulse beating beneath them, and said, “I’ve seen you decide to rescue a stray dog when you’d lost your car and barely escaped with your life. I’ve seen you rescue your sisters, even though you were exhausted and scared and pushed past your limits. I know you think about helping somebody else before you think about yourself, and if that isn’t love, I don’t know what is. Service given from a glad heart—maybe that’s as good a definition of love as any. So, no, I don’t wonder if you can love. I only wonder one thing, really.”
“What’s that?” Her voice was a little breathless, a little uncertain. The first time I’d heard it that way during all of this. For a certain kind of person, being vulnerable is so much harder than being strong.
“I wonder,” I said, “who you let love you.”
Daisy
I tried to think what to say. I couldn’t.
When I was silent, Gray sighed, said, “Yeh. I know,” and took his hand away. I was glad, and I was sorry. His hand had felt good around my wrist. Not shackling me, or holding me back. Just holding on.
I said, “I’ll change the cloth for a cold one,” and got up to do it.
He said, “Daisy …” and I said, “One second.” I needed that second. I needed a minute.
When I came back with a wrung-out cold compress and took the other one off, and he opened his eyes and looked at me, I had some equilibrium back. I set the cold cloth gently over his eyes and said, “This will feel better. You should rest now. Sleep. You told me to sleep as long as I liked, and now I’m telling you.”
Kiwi Strong (New Zealand Ever After Book 3) Page 9