The Shattering (15 page)

Janna curled her fingers around the edge of her shirt and pulled it straight. ‘Okay, then. Good night,' she said, and brushed past him as she went for the door.

Sione felt a hole open inside him, just under his rib cage, and went to shower so that he could pretend to himself that he wasn't crying.

Mum rang at nine. Sione listened over the crackly line to her voice, the familiar lilt of the island accent she'd kept even though she'd now lived longer in New Zealand than she'd lived on Upolu.

‘I heard something, Sione Felise,' she said. ‘I heard you got in a fight. Is that how I raised you?'

‘I didn't,' Sione said quickly.

‘I heard the police got involved, and there was some girl —'

‘No, Mum, no. It didn't happen that way.'

‘You tell me what way it happened right now! If you think I won't come back there and take you home, you've got another think coming.'

‘It was just some guys, Luke and Mark, you know them. Luke was a bit drunk, playing around.' He could feel the sweat prickling in the recess of his spine in this air-conditioned room. Mum didn't make empty threats. She'd fly home and haul him back to Auckland by his ear, or send one of his Auckland cousins to do it.‘It got a bit noisy, but no one was hurt. It was all a misunderstanding.' He added, truth sour on his tongue: ‘You know me. I don't fight.'

‘Hmmm. Were you drinking?'

Sione remembered the can he'd flung at Luke's head, arcing through the air like a big silver bullet. ‘No, Mum.'

‘And the girl?'

‘My friend Janna. And we weren't fighting over her. You met her last year, remember?' That, he realised immediately, had been a mistake.

Sure enough, Mum's voice sharpened again. ‘Oh, that girl? Who wears the clothes?'

‘That's just the fashion, Mum. She's nice.' No, she wasn't, he thought. Janna was exciting and beautiful and dramatic, but not exactly nice.

‘She's someone seeking self-esteem in how boys react to her
fashion
, is what she is.'

‘I think Janna has plenty of self-esteem, Mum.'

‘Hmmm. Well, your father and I both trust you, Sione. We trust you won't let us down.'

Sione thought that only Mum could give the I'm-not-angry-I'm-disappointed speech before she even knew there was something to be disappointed about.

‘Are you sure you're all right?' she asked after a long breath that echoed in his ear.

‘Yes,' Sione said. ‘I'm okay. I miss Matthew.' And Janna was all mixed up with his last memories of Matthew; that was part of the problem. Maybe he
should
go back to therapy.

‘We can come home, if you need us,' she said instead. ‘I've been thinking all day that I was wrong to let you go by yourself. How'd you talk me into this?'

‘I'm a very responsible and independent young man,' he said, trying to joke. ‘It's okay, honest. I'm fine. You don't have to go anywhere.'

‘You're a very responsible and independent seventeen-year-old, but still my baby boy,' she countered. ‘You could get a ticket back to Auckland. Your auntie Betty is at home with the new bub.'

He had to get her off this track right away. ‘How'd you hear about that thing on the beach?' he asked.

‘Kirk Davidson told me. Sione, I think maybe —'

‘I'm doing fine,' he said. ‘I am. It hurts, being here, but it's kind of good hurt. It's clean. I'm getting it all out.' He was thinking about Mr Davidson's cold eyes, the way he watched Sione going in and out of the hotel. And he and Sergeant Rafferty had talked to each other, about the accident, about the fight. Maybe they were working together.

Mum sighed, and he heard all his weary grief in her voice. ‘My mum's been giving me a hard time, eh?' She switched to fast, casual Samoan, with its soft
t
sounds. It was a perfect imitation of Nanny Isolina, but she spoke quietly. Sione could picture Mum checking over her shoulder, hunching over the phone to make sure she wasn't heard. ‘“Where is my grandson? Where is my baby boy? What is this ‘closure'? Ah, your Auckland way is so cold! Where is the family? You forget how to be Samoan!” ' She went back to English. ‘I told her my Auckland way paid for her house, and she told me that all the money in the world couldn't replace family and proper respect. And of course, she's right.'

Sione winced. ‘Sorry, Mum.'

She laughed into the phone. His mum had a great laugh. ‘Is Summerton still beautiful?'

Sione remembered Janna's theory and scrunched his toes into the carpet. ‘Always.'

‘It's a real miracle, that place. Okay, your dad was going to say hi, but it's time for evening prayer. We'll call tomorrow.'

‘Give my love to the uncles and aunties and cousins,' Sione said. ‘And Dad and Nanny Isolina and everyone.'

‘They give theirs to you.
Tofa
, Sione.'

‘
Tofa soifua
.'

He held the phone to his ear until it clicked and went silent, and felt the gap under his ribs open up again.

When he filed into the small wooden church and found a seat at the edge of one pew, Sione felt conspicuous. He'd automatically put on his white church shirt and
ie faitaga
, what he'd wear in Upolu, or to Samoan Christmas Mass in Auckland. But almost everyone in the church was palagi, and most of the men were wearing dark pants and coloured button-ups. The family beside him nodded and smiled and made room for him, though, and by the time the service approached Communion, the familiar ritual of Mass had worked to make his world better. He felt calm and safe for the first time since he'd got on the bus for Summerton.

He knelt with the rest of the congregation to proclaim the mystery of faith. ‘Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again,' they chorused, and he thought, as he did every time now,
Matthew will come again, too.

Some people thought that people who committed suicide wouldn't be resurrected. Sione had never believed that God would be that cruel to people who'd had a rough time already, but he'd been a little bit relieved when he realised that being murdered lifted Matthew out of that category.

With a start, Sione saw that most of the people around him had sat back down, waiting for their time to go forward for Communion. He must have looked especially pious — or like he was trying to seem as if he were.

But before he got up, he squeezed his eyes shut again. He could definitely use some extra help.

Dear God, thank you for your love and inspiration. If it's Your
will, please help me stop this.

Guide me and protect me and my friends.

Amen.

That feeling of warmth and safety increased. He stood up and shuffled forward with faith that his prayers would be answered.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

KERI

Dad got home at nine that night, bringing fish and chips and
a jam doughnut for me.

He'd arranged the food on one of the good cream plates and put everything on a tray. ThThere was even a napkin and a flower, which he'd stuck into one of the small shot glasses.

It was a rose from the garden, not anything fancy, but I felt my throat clog as he carefully lowered the tray onto the sheets over my lap. It was probably the painkillers that made me feel so weird. I shoved a chip in my mouth and bit down on the salty warmth.

‘Missed you, kid,' Dad said, and smoothed my hair away from my face. My hair caught in his rough palms; all my life, my dad has had working hands, calluses forming even through the thick gloves worn by the road crews. When I was little, we used to go on driving holidays all over the South Island, Mum singing as she drove, Dad flinging to me and Jake lollies from the big bag in the front seat to keep us quiet. And every now and then, especially along the West Coast, Dad would look out the window and say, ‘Worked that.'

My dad helped make the roads that tie the island together, moving people up and down and coast to coast like blood travelling through the body. It's maybe not a job many people think is very important, but we were proud of him, Jake and me.

He sat on the end of the bed. I wriggled my legs around, adjusting for the sag.

‘It's been a shit month,' he said. ‘Your mum's worried about you.' ‘I'm okay.' I made a face and lifted the stupid, heavy arm. It was aching again, but I tried to move like it didn't. I didn't want to take more of the pills. ‘Apart from this.'

‘She said she slapped you the other day.'

I had to think hard to remember it. So much had happened since. ‘Oh, yeah. It's all right.'

He scratched at the grey stubble on his chin. ‘You really okay with missing Christmas? Your nanny wants her mokopuna, eh.'

‘I don't think I could handle it. And Mum needs the company.' ‘I could stay here.'

‘Nanny Hinekura would go mental if you did that,' I said.

He gave me the respect-your-elders-young-lady look. ‘Don't talk that way.'

‘You have to go. It's only for one night, right?' And Dad needed his family, as much as he could have. I made myself smile. ‘Guess you can't eat all the pies.'

‘I'll be back first thing Boxing Day. Got the garden to take care of.' He was grinning a bit around the edges. ‘Thing is, I got you something.'

‘You did?' I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. Dad wasn't in charge of gifts. He was in charge of the lawn, and the cars, and teaching Jake and me how to drink responsibly. He did a lot of things well, but presents wasn't one of them. The last thing he'd bought for me on impulse had been a Barbie, when I was (1) thirteen and (2) well over my pink stage. I braced myself as he handed me an envelope.
Look happy
, I told myself,
even if
it's a gift voucher for a manicure or something.

But I didn't have to pretend. I took one look at the red and black card that read canterbury and crusaders member: keri pedersen-doherty and felt joy tingle down my limbs, even the munted one.

‘Canterbury membership,' I breathed. ‘Oh, Dad. Oh,
Dad
. This is the
best
.'

‘We'll still have to buy tickets,' he said. ‘And get to the games.'

‘But we
can
buy them.' Even the finals — guaranteed seats, if we paid.

Of course I supported the West Coast, but they weren't going to win anything in the next century or so, not with the big rugby teams poaching all their best players. And Canterbury was a big team. The biggest.

The only thing that could have been better would have been season tickets to the Black Ferns games, and I didn't think you could even buy those.

For a whole five seconds, I forgot Jake was dead.

Then Dad looked at his knees and hunched a bit, and it came back to me, fresh and horrible. I hitched out a breath, and then another one.

‘Oh, kid,' Dad said, and smoothed my hair again. ‘You don't have to be tough today.'

Sometime later, when I lifted my head away from his chest, there were big wet spots all over his shirt. Mum was standing in the doorway, arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. Dad held out a hand, but she shook her head. ‘Early morning tomorrow,' she said. ‘I just . . . remember to take your pills, Keri.'

‘Okay,' I said, too tired to fight about it.

‘I love you,' she added, and walked out, back stiff, before I could reply.

Dad poured me a Coke to wash down the painkillers, told me I could skip brushing my teeth, and tucked me in. ‘I'll put this in the fridge,' he said, taking the plate. ‘Good night, kid. Merry Christmas.'

I yawned in acknowledgment and snuggled my cheek against the pillow. I felt emptied out, and the pills on top of that made me feel kind of drift y and soft . I knew it wouldn't last, but it was nice while it did.