“Dorian,” I said again.
“Dorian,” he repeated. “What is he doing?”
“Maths,” I said. “Physics with me, and calculus, and geometry, because he missed it. And the other subjects. He’s going to University.” I took a breath and said it. “We both are. I want to be a nurse. Or …” Another breath. “A doctor.”
He nodded and took a sip of his coffee. I hauled on every bit of courage I had and asked, “How are Mum and Dad? How are the kids?”
“Well,” he said.
“Will you tell them you’ve seen me?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
I sat there, and after a minute, he pulled out his phone, an item that wasn’t allowed at Mount Zion except for the very few, and said, “If you give me your number. I’ll put it in under ‘Daisy.’ In case you need me.”
Now, I told Gray that, and said, “It was so hard to give him that number. It felt like they could reel me back in, but I must have wanted the connection, because I did it. I didn’t contact him often, though, and Dorian didn’t contact him at all. He was ashamed, I think. I think he still is. Thinking about it hurts him, so he doesn’t think about it. I can’t do that. I can’t escape reality. Reality is here.”
We were nearly to the house now. I would have turned in, but Gray said, “Another kilometer, and we’ll see that beach. I’d like to show you that beach.”
“Oh.” I’d completely forgotten. I was shaky, but I was still running. You couldn’t outrun pain and uncertainty, but you could run until you could stand the pain and live with the uncertainty, so that was what I did.
“And Fruitful and Obedience?” Gray asked. “How did you work that out?”
I said, “I’m going to tell you something. It’s the biggest secret. If Gilead knew, if my father knew, if the Prophet knew, I’d …” And then my blood ran cold, because of course they knew. Of course they knew, now.
Gray asked, “What?”
I swallowed and said, “Birth control. I’ve been providing it.”
Gray laughed and said, “Doesn’t sound so bad.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “It’s disobeying God’s will. It’s encouraging women to be defiant. It’s the worst thing I could have done, and now, they know.”
“The Punishment Hut,” Gray said. “Fruitful.”
“Yes. That was why we had to go before we were ready, or rather—before she and Obedience were. Leaving’s a big step. She wanted to go, but Obedience wasn’t sure, and Fruitful wouldn’t leave without her. There’s our younger sister, too. Prudence. She isn’t even fifteen yet. If I can’t go back there, and Fruitful and Obedience aren’t there … when she’s old enough to leave, I want to get her out, too, and how will I …” I stopped, breathed, and went on. “Anyway. Gilead found out, which meant Fruitful wasn’t safe. It means the other women will be suffering, too. That’s what worries me.”
“Explain,” Gray said. When I was silent, he sighed and said, “Of course you don’t have to explain. But you’re scared, and you’re not stupid. So if there could be danger—tell me.”
More silence. I was trying to think. It was so hard to think. The secret was so big, so terrifying. Gray said, “You’re going back to work sometime.”
“Yes,” I said. “Tonight. I’ll be on the night shift, for now. Midnight until eight. So I can have the late afternoons and evenings with the girls, get things done.”
“Midnight until eight,” Gray said. “I’ll be here, at least until seven or so. Me, and the dog.”
“Does the dog have a name?” I asked, because I didn’t want to think about danger.
“No,” Gray said. “Got an idea?”
I looked down at her. She was on the lead, trotting at Gray’s side like she was happy to be here. I said, “I always thought that if I had a dog, I’d name her Xena, Warrior Princess.”
Gray laughed. “Xena, eh. Works for me. Right, then. The Warrior Princess and I will be here. Did you get the girls mobile phones?”
“Not yet. I was planning on doing it today. I’d feel better if they had them.”
“When you get them, put my number in them, too. And remember—nobody can get to the yurt without going past the house.”
“You’ll be asleep,” I said.
“I’ll hear,” he said. “I’ll know.”
He didn’t say more than that, didn’t tell me that he was strong, and he was tough, and he was ready to protect them. And because he didn’t tell me, I believed him.
I said, “Uncle Aaron only has six kids.”
“Only?”
“Usually, families have eight, minimum. All the way up to fourteen. A woman is expected to be back at work two weeks after she gives birth, and available to her husband then, too. You get married at sixteen. Do the maths. Breastfeeding can suppress ovulation, but it doesn’t always work, and if it does, it doesn’t work forever. You get a few months, that’s all, when you’re young and fertile.”
“Wait,” Gray said. “Two weeks?”
“Yes. But that’s not the point.”
“That bloody well is the point.”
“No. It’s really not. Uncle Aaron … Aunt Constance had miscarriages. The Prophet would berate women who had miscarriages. Accuse them of having abortions, or of wanting them. Uncle Aaron told me that they’d started to use the rhythm method, secretly. Something else that doesn’t always work, but it works better than nothing. And then, you know, I told him when I went to nursing school. When I became a nurse. He asked me, after that … for help for his married daughters. His wife. So I did. I did injections, mostly, because they’re fastest, and they’re easiest, too. Every three months, we’d arrange the date. I’d go to the shed and give the injections, so they could at least wait a year or so before they got pregnant again. Word got out, and then I was doing them once a month, because somebody would’ve noticed if a dozen women had all left their beds on the same night. And, yes, you’re right that it’s dodgy. I’m a nurse, not a doctor. I’d give the injection, under normal circumstances, but I wouldn’t be the one ordering it. My gynecologist helped me with the prescriptions, and that’s a secret, too.”
“So you did an injection on Fruitful,” Gray said, “which is why she’s seventeen and doesn’t have a baby yet. But her husband found out.”
“No. I didn’t. Gilead is … he’d notice she was gone. You have to be … careful. With Gilead. You have to … walk carefully.” Once again, the cold prickles were rising on my arms, the back of my neck. Existential threat, responded to in an existential manner. I kept running, kept breathing, and said, “I put in an IUD instead for Fruitful. So I could do it once, and she wouldn’t have to risk getting out again. But she’d gone sixteen months since marriage with no pregnancy, so Gilead made her go to the midwife. The Prophet’s wife. My great-aunt Mercy. Fruitful just … hoped she wouldn’t notice, I guess. But she noticed. Of course she noticed. She felt the strings. She told the Prophet. And she told Gilead.”
Gray said, “Here it is.” A track across the grassland, the cliff tops, and a sign. Tunnel Beach.
We turned. We ran. A track of beaten earth, easier going. Nobody out here, not this early. The sun was up, and the pink was fading. Gray had taken Xena off her leash, and she stretched out and ran, then circled back to us.
It was all peaceful. It was all perfect. But it wasn’t that way inside me.
Gray asked, “And what happened then?” His voice was quiet. Controlled.
I reminded myself that I was here. The wind on my face, the sea ahead of me, and a man at my side whose caring might matter, because I might be able to accept it, at least a little bit. I could accept it for my sisters, anyway, so I breathed in the salt air and told him. “Gilead tried to get her to tell how it had happened. How he does it … he doesn’t use as much force as you’d expect. Real beating, with fists—that’s not allowed. People would notice. You’re meant to use … restraint, as a man. As a husband.”
Gray said, “But he found ways.”
I glanced at him. His jaw was set so tight, there was a muscle ticking there. You see that in men trying to hold back pain. Or trying to hold back fury.
I said, “Yes. And still, she didn’t tell him it was me. She said she didn’t know my name, that she didn’t know how it was set up. She swore she didn’t say it was me. But after that—that evening, Sunday evening—there was a meeting, a shaming. They took turns, the men did. That’s what they do. Sort of … beat you down with words. With guilt, and shame, and fear of going to Hell. You can’t imagine how real that fear is. The women were crying, Uncle Aaron said. Being told their sin was known, being told to confess to the community, and to God. Five of them did, and Obedience said … that they said ‘Chastity.’ They said it was me. Uncle Aaron had texted me before that, though, told me to come that night instead of a couple weeks later like we’d planned. He was going to smuggle them to Wanaka in the truck, but we didn’t get the chance. So instead, he told them to go to the shed, and I came as soon as I got off work at midnight.”
“But they must know it’s you, then,” Gray said. “Who took the girls. Even if your father didn’t recognize you, he’ll put the pieces together.”
I couldn’t keep going. I slowed, and then I stopped and bent from the waist, my hands on my knees. Gray was there beside me, his hand on my back, saying, “Daisy. Come on, now. Come on.”
I said, “Just a … minute. I … can’t.” I dropped to my heels, my arms around myself, and started to shake. Uncontrollably. Horribly. Full-body tremors, like in the truck. Except that this wasn’t a reaction to escaping. This was a reaction for all the people who couldn’t.
And to my own dread.
Gray was down there, too, and Xena dropped to her haunches and whined, an urgent sound. Gray’s hands were on my shoulders, but I couldn’t look at him. I had a hand over my face, trying to hold the sobs back.
He didn’t say anything at all. He crouched there on the track, his hands gripping my shoulders, and waited.
The sobs were painful, ripped out of me. I was gasping for air, my lungs burning, my eyes and nose streaming. The sounds were ugly, and I knew that I was, too. I’d fallen over now, was on my bum in the grass, clutching myself, pulling my legs into me like I was trying to avoid the blows.
Gray was still there. His arms all the way around me, wrapping me up, pulling me into his body so I was nearly in his lap. His hand smoothing over my hair. And still, he didn’t talk. He didn’t say, “Don’t cry.” He didn’t say, “It’ll be all right.” He just held me.
Finally, I ran down. A few more deep, shuddering breaths, and I was still. I finally said, “That was … bad. Sorry. I’m a … mess.” My voice was shaking, and my hands were still over my face. I had nothing to wipe my nose with, unless I actually took off my bra, and I wasn’t doing that again.
“Here.” Something soft was thrust into my hands, and I took it. Gray’s T-shirt. Damp with sweat, and I was glad of it. I mopped up, then clutched the shirt in my hand and said, “Yeh. Well. So, that happened.”
“It did.” He then put a hand under my elbow and helped me to my feet. Normally, I wouldn’t have needed help. Today, I was rocky. He said, “That’s a lot of pain to carry. A lot of fear. Reckon it needed to come out. Come on. We’ll go see the sea. We’ll let it blow it all away. And we’ll think about what to do next.”
28
Visitors
Gray
What do you do when all you want in the world is to hit somebody, and he’s not there to take the punch?
I was meant to watch myself for signs of inappropriate emotion. Of uncontrollable anger, especially. Well, I had it. I didn’t know what to do about it, so I jogged along the earthen track with Daisy, looked at the sea and the sandstone cliffs and the arch in the rock, listened to the pounding of the surf, smelled damp grass and salt air and a storm coming, and tried to breathe.
Daisy said, “It’s nice here. Thanks. And I’m better. I needed to do that, I guess.”
“Good,” I said. “But that’s not all of it.” Around the corner, down the track, and there it was ahead of us. An arched concrete tunnel.
She said, “Oh.”
I said, “Yeh. Touch the wall through here. It’s dark. Slopes down. Go carefully.” I’d have taken her hand, but I wasn’t sure if it would help, so I didn’t. She wanted to be normal again, to be bright and strong and decisive, that was clear.
We stepped out into the sunlight, and she sighed and said again, “Oh.”
The sea was foaming up nearly all the way to the cliff face, the tide just on the turn, but the waves were gentle here in the protection of the arm of rock that jutted far out into the sea, with the natural arch at its end, and the water came forward with a hiss onto the gleaming sand and retreated again, leaving scallops of foam. On the farther edge of the scooped-out section of coast, a silver waterfall plunged down the fern-studded cliff and fell with a spatter into the sea.
“You could be anywhere,” Daisy said. “It’s the ends of the earth.”
I said, “It’s a special place. A hidden place. You could bring the girls, maybe. The mountains and the sea, those are my places. Where I can send my troubles on their way and come back lighter.”
She said, “You’re cold, though.”
I was wearing an ancient pair of Highlanders-blue rugby shorts, and that was all. She was still holding my shirt. She was one of those women who’d always insist on washing your shirt before she gave it back. “Nah,” I said. “I’m used to being cold. Rugby, eh. You told me your secret, and I told you mine. Let’s walk over to the waterfall. There’ll be rainbows.”
“Not so much of a secret,” she said, “since everybody but me apparently knows,” but she came. Not caring that her feet were getting wet. She was about the least fussy woman I’d ever met. I’d have liked her to be a bit more fussy, actually. I’d never been much for romantic gestures, but I’d have carried her across wet ground. I’d have done that gladly.
“I’m reminding myself,” she said, when we were watching the waterfall splash into the receding curls of foam, “that Gilead doesn’t know my surname. So why do I feel like the hair’s rising at the back of my neck?”
“Dunno,” I said. “Maybe there’s something you don’t know you know. We thought of my truck’s number plate, but the sun wasn’t up yet, and you were heading for that fence, and for your father, flat to the boards. Unless he’s got ice in his veins, he wasn’t looking at number plates, he was diving for cover. But maybe your uncle shared your surname. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I don’t think he knows,” Daisy said. “I don’t think I ever told him. I just said ‘Daisy,’ I think. Not sure, though. It’s been too many years. And it’s not as if Gilead has outside contacts, or my father, either. It’s not as if they have any power out here.”
She said it as if she was willing herself to believe it, then shivered, drained by emotion and exertion, and I said, “Well, never mind it for now. They’re not going to find you here. Come on. Let’s head in.”
“My bike,” she said, as we ran to the tunnel again. “My surfboard. I’d like to get them from the flat, but I can’t put them on your car without scratching it, and Dorian’s car isn’t much better. Can I get a lift with you, one day?”
“No worries,” I said. “I’ll get them for you when I fix your window glass. I’ll get that done last thing today, and bring the bike and surfboard back out with me, how’s that? Save the landlord coming by and noticing the window first. Otherwise, you could be out of that place before you’ve properly moved in.”
Which didn’t sound like the worst thing in the world. I didn’t say that, though.
Five-thirty that afternoon, the end of another busy day when I’d had too much to do and not enough bodies to do it. Normally, I’d have stayed to do the next day’s planning, but there was that visit from the brother-surrogate.
I didn’t have to go, and I knew it. I’d go anyway. I’d put in some time on the laptop later ton
ight, but just now, I needed to fix Daisy’s window glass and collect her gear, then go home and be vetted by her friend.
The idea was pretty amusing. When you’re an All Black, let’s say that you don’t get much resistance as a potential mate. People think they know you, that’s why, and if they don’t like what they see? They know where you work, and so does the media. But mostly, it’s that you’re part of New Zealand’s most exclusive fraternity, and once you’ve run out onto the field in the black jersey, you’re an All Black forever. No man ever forgets his All Black number. It may as well be engraved on his heart. The public don’t forget, either, even seven years on.
Tonight, though? I’d go home, eat pizza, and subject myself to whatever this fella—and his wife, and his kids, and his dog—had to ask me. Those girls needed all the help they could get.
I was thinking it, and then I wasn’t, because I hauled my ladder out of the ute and went to set it at the base of the window, and Xena whined from the ute. And then she barked.
Just once, short and sharp. I hadn’t heard her bark yet, so it surprised me. I said, “Nah, girl. They’re not here,” and grabbed my tools and the sheet of glass, grateful that the window was framed in metal and this would be easy.
Xena barked again, the hair rose on my arms, and my skin prickled.
I froze.
What?
I looked up.
The deconstructed brown pasteboard carton I’d taped over the window was gone. The curtains were flapping in the wind, in the remnant of the storm that had passed through today.
I tried to think, Landlord’s been by and seen the broken window. Didn’t make sense, though. You’d never take off the pasteboard unless you were replacing the glass.
Fallen off, then.
I’d taped that pasteboard on there myself, though, and I knew how to make something secure.
Kiwi Strong (New Zealand Ever After Book 3) Page 20