Second Chances (46 page)

‘Can you look her in the eye?’

‘Who’s going to cast the first stone, Martha? Not me, that’s for sure.’

I sigh. ‘I think Kit might.’

The line crackles. ‘Look, come down to the beach. We’re here. We need to talk to you.’

There’s no sign of life from the studio, but Bianka says she’ll keep an eye on the twins. They’re both asleep now, piled in a soft heap on the sofa.

I find Dad’s car near the school, in the spot where we parked the day we first came to Torutaniwha. It’s a golden evening, just as that one was. Tussock grass shivers in a light breeze. I wander through the dunes, reliving the magic of that day. It’s all over now. I wish I could wind back time and start again.

The beach is empty except for two familiar figures who sit close together among the rocks at the foot of Hinemoana’s hill: a gaunt girl with bony arms, whose spray of curls seems to flow on the salt breeze; and a wiry, grey-haired man whose eyes miss nothing. I love them both. I approach along the foreshore, my feet sinking with every step, the wind freshening around my ears. As I come closer I see that they’re sharing a rock. They seem to be watching a party of gannets, soaring and diving beyond the breakers. Sacha has her head on Dad’s shoulder, and his arm is around her.

He watches my approach with a tranquil smile. ‘We came to ask her advice.’

I glance around, but we’re alone. ‘Ask who?’

‘Hinemoana,’ says Sacha jerkily, without lifting her head from Dad’s shoulder. ‘We thought she’d understand.’

I choose my own rock to sit on. It’s covered in seaweed and little shells. Nearby, a hunting gannet plunges into the waves and reappears with a struggling fish in its beak.

Dad glances at the cliffs. ‘Sacha thought of Hinemoana because she knows what it’s like to be enchanted by evil. And she found her own way out.’

‘We’ll have to go back to England,’ I say.

‘And the boys?’ persists Dad. ‘And Kit? This is their true home. I’ve seen that for myself.’

‘Kit doesn’t have any choice. It’s my job that got us the visas.’

‘I don’t want that!’ Sacha must be coming down from her last smoke, whenever that was. She looks drained and edgy, but determined. ‘I’ve done enough damage without making all of you leave Torutaniwha. It’s the last thing I want. Look, Mum, I have to live with this for the rest of my life. I have to find a way to go on, knowing what I did to Finn. And just saying sorry is never, ever going to be enough.’

The temperature seems to drop abruptly, as the sun leaves the beach.

‘The three of us have come up with a plan,’ says Dad. ‘Hinemoana had her say, too. At first Sacha felt that she didn’t deserve to live, after what she did. She felt that there was only one way out.’ He smiles at his granddaughter. ‘But she will
not
drown herself here at Hinemoana’s hill, no matter how poetic that might sound. She knows that she has a future— don’t you, Sacha? She knows that her family want her to be made whole and well. She also knows that she can defeat this evil if she fights it with everything she’s got, even if that means leaving the people she loves.’

‘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. His 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.