Shadow of the Mountain (5 page)

Or maybe, Geneva acknowledged, her anger finally burning out into tears, maybe somewhere at the bottom of it all, was Stephen.

‘M
um? I brought you a cup of tea.’

Her mother was lying on her back staring
upwards
. Geneva followed her gaze but the ceiling was blank, not even a fly spot marring its pristine surface.

‘Mum?’

Her mother’s eyes turned towards her. ‘Thank you, dear.’ Her voice was tired. Everything about her was tired.

Geneva glanced surreptitiously at the top of the bedside cabinet, wondering whether her mother was still on medication. It wasn’t the sort of thing you could ask over the dinner table. Especially not over their dinner table.

‘I heard Dad go out early. Is everything okay on the farm? I mean, does he need some help or something?’

Her mother slowly pushed herself up against the pillows. ‘He hasn’t said.’

Geneva hesitated then sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Sonya was asking after you.’

Her mother sipped her tea, her face vague.

‘It was weird seeing Kitty. She’s changed.’

Geneva waited, hoping for some response, some
encouragement
; some way into a conversation.

The silence stretched outwards, filling the room as if it
were tangible: a thick, invisible jelly. Geneva imagined saying ‘Kitty’s boyfriend’s a right wanker who drives too fast and is really rude and God knows what they were up to in the car. Her mum’s really worried about her. And we had an argument in the middle of a restaurant and that’s that basically.’

‘Did your father wash his breakfast dishes?’ Her mother asked.

Geneva gazed at her. Maybe her relationship with her mother wasn’t so different to Kitty and Sonya’s. Just quieter.

‘I’ll do it,’ she said.

Sundays. Sundays always felt flat and drab. An endless line of Sundays, the day before Monday, the day before everything starts all over again.

Lying on her back in a pool of sunshine on the living room floor, Geneva smiled faintly. Progress. Six months ago, every day felt like Sunday. Every day had that bleary-eyed, best forgotten, get-it-over-with feeling. There hadn’t even been boredom to balance the other days out. So this was definitely progress.

Studying the pictures in the yoga book Sonya had lent her, Geneva lifted her legs into a shoulder stand, held for two minutes then slowly lowered. She wondered whether there were cultures where it was permissible to swap parents, to trade them in on a more compatible model; cultures that recognised the imperative to get as far from the gene pool that spawned you as soon as was humanly possible.

She’d once got on well with her mother. Family holidays, shopping, skiing trips, picnics. They used to talk about all sorts
of things, colluding over the changes to the house and how to convince Geneva’s father that they needed a break from the farm. They used to cook meals together and take over the TV when the Silver Ferns were playing or the Wearable Art Awards were on. Not any longer. According to Kitty, Geneva had changed: she was no longer fun. Well, if it was true of her, it was certainly true of her mother.

Abruptly Geneva closed the yoga book and stood up. Yoga was supposed to make you feel calm and airy but she didn’t feel either. Throwing the book onto the coffee table, she fought off a sneeze. No one had vacuumed in here for ages.

As she opened the cupboard where the vacuum cleaner lived, Geneva glanced towards the jewel-bright abstract of glass that split the dark wood of the front door. With the sun behind it, the coloured panes threw irregular shards of colour into the monochromatic space beyond. Just after the house had been finished, she and Stephen had stood here in the hallway, laughing like little kids as the colours dappled their faces green and orange.

Today there was a shadow in the light: a dark mass shifting behind the glass. Geneva frowned. There was someone
outside
. She hadn’t heard a car. After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped forward and opened the door.

‘Shit! Sorry. Hi.’ It was Angus.

‘What are you doing?’ Dumb question: he was standing on her doorstep. But why hadn’t he knocked?

Angus gestured vaguely. ‘I was, um, coming to see you. If that’s all right.’

Geneva wasn’t quite ready to release her confusion. ‘Sure, but … How’d you get here?’

‘I biked.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t know how you do it. I’m knackered.’

At the foot of the steps, an ancient mountain bike lay
abandoned
beside the path. Geneva walked over to inspect it. ‘It’s an antique,’ she said.

Angus had followed her back onto the gravel. ‘I hope you don’t mind me coming. I figured I’d just, you know …’

Geneva felt generous, aware of how pleased she was to see him. ‘No, it’s fine. It’s good to see you. It was a bit of a risk though — what if I’d been out? It’s a long ride.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Angus said.

His vehemence made her grin. ‘You’re lucky it’s a nice day. Come on, we’ll sit outside,’ she added, leading the way along the path that ran around the corner of the house to the wide paved terrace and the view of the mountain. She wasn’t ready to share him with whichever of her parents might be lurking inside. ‘Do you want a drink? A litre or two of water maybe? Electrolyte replacement fluid?’

‘Whatever you say,’ Angus agreed, turning to face the mountain. ‘That’s some view. No wonder you decided to take up climbing.’

Geneva stood beside him. A single flag of cloud hung from the mountain’s spiked crown while lower, each angled face was sharply defined in the crisp light of late winter.

‘Have you done any climbing there?’

‘Just the easy slopes. Not for a while.’ Stephen had taken her. Twice.

‘It’s Kaitiaki isn’t it? I thought it had a reputation for not having any easy slopes.’

She stared at the mountain.

‘The name means Protector, doesn’t it?’

Geneva nodded, searching for a way to change the subject. ‘How long did the ride take you?’

Angus looked sheepish. ‘Let’s just say I won’t be entering the Tour de France this year.’

She laughed. ‘It’s probably the bike. Mountain bikes aren’t designed for distance on the road.’

‘It’s Mum’s really — not that she uses it. Mine was co-opted by the fiendish brother a few years ago and I never got round to getting another. Maybe I should though,’ he added.

Geneva looked at him. To visit her? She smiled.

From behind them in the house came a splintering crash. Angus was beside her as she turned and ran.

‘Mum!’ Geneva dropped to the floor beside her mother, scarcely noticing when a shard of glass stabbed into her knee.

Her mother was face down, head twisted to one side. There was blood high on her temple, spreading through her hair in a dark, sticky mess. Geneva laid a hand on her shoulder. She felt cut off, as if the two of them were caught in a bubble while the world roared by unchecked. Angus’s voice broke the spell.

‘She’s unconscious,’ he said, his fingers finding her mother’s wrist. ‘We need to keep her warm. Can you get a blanket? And a towel.’

Geneva nodded, forcing herself up. Her body felt
unresponsive
, disjointed, while her breath came fast and shallow. Angus looked up, surveying the sharp corners of the work surface beside them. ‘Quick as you can,’ he added.

Galvanised, she turned and ran for the linen cupboard, her hands shaking as she pulled down a neatly folded blanket. Folded by her mother. The panic had settled into a slow, throbbing ache somewhere high in her chest. Towels, she told herself, grasping at the instruction.

Angus was lifting the hair back from her mother’s temple when she returned with the soft fabrics clutched to her chest. He took the towel and laid it gently against the cut on her mother’s head. Blood soaked quickly into the cloth, spreading outwards in a dark halo.

‘You’ve cut your foot,’ Angus said, glancing back at her.

Geneva looked down. Blood was pooling around her bare sole. She couldn’t feel it. Angus was pressing a fresh section of the towel against her mother’s head.

‘I —’ Her voice came out a dull croak.

‘It’s okay,’ Angus said. ‘The cut’s not deep. There’s a good sized swelling — she must have hit her head when she fell. You could spread the blanket over her,’ he added. ‘Be careful though. There’s glass everywhere.’

Geneva stared around, searching for a culprit. Long shards of green and blue glass lay in a minefield across the floor: the bowl that usually sat on the end of the bench, mostly empty, sometimes holding an overflow of fruit — she could see the heavy base, still intact, near the table.

‘Did you ring for an ambulance?’ Angus asked.

She stared at him, struggling against the fog in her brain. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

‘Mind the glass,’ he said.

Her fingers shook as she dialled, but the calm approach of the operator helped draw out the relevant details. Everyone
but her seemed calm. She wiped impatiently at the hot, slow tears that dribbled off her chin, nodding as the unknown voice assured her of a prompt response. By the time she replaced the receiver her heart rate had begun to steady.

Leaning against the wall, Geneva lifted her foot, gingerly removing a bright blue splinter. Blood welled from the thin cut. She’d left puddles of it across the floor, staining the terracotta tiles.

Wrapping a tea-towel around her foot she swept the worst of the glass into a corner, leaving the jagged shards hemmed in by the broom. Angus had dampened a clean section of towel and was gently sponging her mother’s face.

He looked up as she squatted beside him. ‘Okay?’

She nodded. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Help me turn her. She might have fallen on some of the glass.’

Geneva’s throat constricted. As gently as they could, they rolled her mother onto her side. Her face looked damp and pale.

‘Have you got a first aid kit?’

Angus’s question brought her eyes quickly to his face, then down again. More blood was oozing from a gash on her mother’s hand. Her stomach lurched, queasiness building into an urge to be sick. Swallowing, she willed herself calm. ‘I’ll get it.’

The cut didn’t look life threatening but it was just one more thing — and it was a long time since Geneva had felt confident of her mother’s resilience. Angus selected sterile pads and a gauze bandage from the first aid kit and began dressing the cut.

‘She’ll be okay,’ he said, glancing up. ‘How long did the ambulance say?’

‘Twenty minutes.’

‘Do you know where your dad is?’

‘He’s probably checking the heifers.’ Geneva hesitated.
Despite
knowing she was being about as useful as a wetsuit on a frog, she didn’t want to leave her mother’s side. ‘Do you want me to find him?’

‘As long as you don’t have to go far. Here,’ he said, handing her a couple of plasters. ‘Better put shoes on.’

Geneva lingered. ‘Mum won’t know who you are if she wakes up,’ she said.

Angus looked up. ‘I’ll call you. It’ll be okay.’ He smiled.

Grateful that someone felt up to making decisions, Geneva nodded. She’d try up by the sheds. If her father wasn’t there, she’d at least know which vehicle he’d taken: truck, bike or tractor. That would narrow it down a bit, though there were still too many places he might be.

In the past — years in the past — she’d have known exactly where her father was, along with his schedule for the day. She used to love going with him on the farm, helping with
feeding
out and docking, wading through the bleating and dust of the yards in summertime, feeling in her soles and chest the pulsing beat of the shed at shearing. They’d drifted apart over the last year. They’d all drifted. The farm had drifted, her father’s heart no longer in it.

The implement shed was empty. That meant he’d taken the bike. Geneva ran across to the double garage that housed the truck and tractor. She might not have a licence but she’d been driving farm machinery since her thirteenth birthday. Her
father had marked the occasion by giving her a lesson on the farm bike after presents and before school — she recalled with an ache the heady mix of fear and exhilaration.

The truck started at the first attempt and she backed out into the yard, swung it quickly and drove to the top of the hill behind the sheds where she switched off and sounded the horn: once, twice, three times. Pause. Once, twice, three times. She repeated the process then sat listening.

Nothing. She tried again. In the silence that followed she thought she heard an answering blare of horn. What would he be thinking? She hoped he wasn’t far away. She didn’t want him to have too long to worry — to panic, the way she had.

Gripping the steering wheel, Geneva dropped her
forehead
onto the thin leather padding and took a couple of long slow breaths. She should get back to the house. Thank God Angus was here. Willing her legs to hold her, she got out of the cab to listen. She could definitely hear a bike engine now. It was over by the dams; not far away. He’d be home in a few minutes.

By the time the ambulance arrived Geneva had settled into a numb lethargy. Her father had barely had time to take in her account of what had happened before they found themselves standing on the gravel of the driveway, their concern tinged with relief as the professionals took charge.

Her father wanted to drive into town but the paramedics suggested he travel in the ambulance, for his own safety as well as for his wife. He still looked the way Geneva had felt in those first, drawn-out minutes: shell shocked.

‘Thank God it’s not more serious,’ her father said,
squeezing
an arm around Geneva’s shoulders as they watched the crew lift her mother into the ambulance. ‘She’ll have to stay in overnight.’ He hesitated. ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right? I could drive us both.’

Geneva shook her head. ‘No, you go with Mum. She’ll want you there. I’ll be fine.’

Her father nodded, his weather-beaten face folded into lines more deeply drawn than ever. He didn’t push it: he knew how she felt about hospitals. ‘Julia could come over, or one of the neighbours might —’

‘I’ll be fine, Dad. Anyway, Angus is here.’