Chapter Thirteen
Henry
The next day, I arrive at my mother’s house at one o’clock. She said I could come at any time, but I know dinner will be around two, and an extra hour with my family is about all I can handle.
It’s nothing to do with my mum. Beth Rewi is fifty-five, with short graying hair and let’s be polite and say a curvaceous figure. She’s a nurse, working part-time at a hospice, and she’s practical, no-nonsense, but kind. She married Teariki Rewi only five years ago, after eleven years of being single. Outwardly, they act as if they’re celebrating their Golden Wedding Anniversary soon, bickering like an old married couple, but I’ve seen the way they look at each other when they think nobody’s watching, and there’s plenty of sizzle left on that barbecue, let me tell you.
The problem is my siblings, both of whom drive me insane. My sister, Liza, is twenty-five and with two children by different fathers. My brother, Philip, is thirty-two, with four children by different mothers. Both of them look ten years older than they are, and Philip has already lost most of his hair. Come to think of it, I’m actually a tiny bit relieved that I’m infertile.
They’re both here today, along with all their children, except Rangi, I discover a few minutes after arriving. Philip informs me he’ll be along soon, though.
The house is hot and noisy, the kids all tired from having risen at six a.m., hyperactive from having eaten way too much chocolate, and bored, even though they’ve brought most of their new toys with them.
I greet them all with big hugs, though, and after Mum insists she doesn’t need help in the kitchen, I join them in the garden to play Swingball and rugby, to push the smaller ones on the swings, and to hold my two-year-old niece’s hands while she jumps on the outdoor trampoline, her feet barely rising an inch.
Teariki is in charge of the hāngī—the traditional Māori oven which consists of stones heated over a fire in a pit at the bottom of the backyard. Large wire baskets lined with foil containing all kinds of food have been cooking for hours, and he begins uncovering them and testing to make sure it’s all cooked properly before getting Philip to help him carry them over to the large table on the deck.
I’d offer to help, but I know from experience that Philip will say no, that he’s perfectly able to cope without my help, so I concentrate on keeping the kids amused.
Rangi arrives ten minutes before dinner is due to be served. In the process of tossing the rugby ball to another nephew, I glance over and see him leaning against the wall, watching me, and instantly I can see there’s something wrong.
I lob the ball to Nikau, then walk over to Rangi. “Hey bro.” I duck my head to catch his eye. “How’s it going?”
He studies the Queens of the Stone Age logo on my new T-shirt which James bought me for Christmas. His jaw is knotted. “She’s getting an abortion next week,” he announces.
I blow out a long breath. “Ah, man, I’m sorry.”
“She doesn’t want one. Her mum’s making her do it.”
“Dude, that sucks, but I can understand why. She’s only sixteen.”
“It’s fucking murder,” he yells.
“Jesus, keep your voice down.” I grab his arm and pull him away from the house. “It’s Christmas Day,” I snap. “Now is not the time.”
He wrenches his arm away, sullen and mutinous. “I don’t care.”
“Well, I do. Grandma has worked hard to make dinner today, and I don’t want you ruining it.”
His gaze meets mine then, and his eyes are filled with tears. “She wants the baby, and so do I. Why does she have to get rid of it?”
“Because you don’t know what you want at sixteen. Neither of you have any idea how this is going to impinge on your life. It’s what happens when you’re children—you have to let adults make the decisions for you.”
“I’m not a child. Did you think you were a child when you were at Greenfield?”
I don’t reply, because my answer would be no, and I’d have decked any adult who suggested it.
“Look,” I say quietly, “after dinner, why don’t we go for a walk and have a chat about it?”
He scuffs the floor with his shoe. “All right.”
“Good lad. Now come on, it’s Christmas Day. Baby in the manger and all that. It should be a day of celebration.”
“I made a baby,” Rangi says, “and he won’t get to be born. What would Jesus say about that?”
I’m beginning to regret getting up this morning. “Grab the fucking rugby ball and come and play with the kids with me.”
He does, albeit sullenly, and we toss the ball about until Mum yells that dinner’s ready.
We sit around the table and tuck into the feast. She’s done herself proud this year. The trays from the hāngī contain chicken, lamb, pork, fish and some shellfish, potatoes, kūmara or sweet potatoes, cabbage, pumpkin, and stuffing. Mum’s also prepared a big watercress salad and fried bread, and there are steamed puddings with custard for dessert.
There’s plenty of alcohol, and because it’s Christmas, Rangi, who’s the oldest, is allowed to have a beer. He drinks it—a little too quickly—and helps himself to another. Nobody else notices, but I frown as I finish my dessert. He returns to the table, and continues pushing his dinner around with his fork.
I’ve brought my guitar, and I strum Po Tapu—Silent Night, and Harikoa—Silver Bells, and then Te pukeko i te rakau ponga—A Pukeko in a Ponga Tree, which is our version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, the kids all joining in.
I manage to get all the way up to Five Big Fat Pigs before it all goes tits up.
“For God’s sake,” Philip says to Rangi, “what’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve been sucking a lemon.”
Still strumming, I glance at them. Rangi doesn’t reply—he just glares morosely at the table.
“I asked you a question,” Philip demands.
Rangi looks up, and his eyes meet mine. I give a small shake of my head. His chest heaves, and then he looks back at his father.
“Ellie’s pregnant,” he says.
I stop strumming. All the adults and the kids who know what it means stare at him. The toddlers look around at the rest of us, obviously sensing trouble brewing.
“What?” Philip thunders.
Rangi pushes his dinner away. “Her parents are making her have an abortion, so you don’t have to worry.”
Mum presses her fingers to her mouth.
Teariki frowns and says, “Rangi. That’s not an appropriate topic at the table.”
“Of course it’s not,” Rangi shouts. “We’re supposed to be celebrating the birth of Jesus, aren’t we? Not the murder of a baby.”
Rangi’s sister, nine-year-old Kaia, says, “What’s an abortion?”
Her mother, Hine, snaps, “Rangi! Not at the table!”
He’s upset, though, and he’s not about to behave just because his stepmother—who he’s always disliked—is demanding it. “We both want the baby,” he says. “Why should she have to get rid of it?”
“Because her parents obviously have more sense than she does,” Philip snaps. “You fucking idiot,” he says to his son, filling me with shame, because I said the same thing. “You couldn’t keep it in your pants, could you? I knew she was a slut.”
A heartbeat passes as everyone stares at everyone else with varying degrees of horror, and then Rangi springs for his father across the table. He lands on Philip and knocks his chair backward, and Philip’s feet shoot out, hitting the table. Glasses and plates of half-eaten food fly everywhere. The toddlers start crying, Kaia screams, and Mum yells, “Henry! Do something!”
I get to my feet, walk around the table, grab the back of Rangi’s tee, and haul him off his father.
“Stop it!” I snap as he struggles to get free. I frog march him over to a seat, push him down, and say, “Sit there.”
Teariki helps Philip up. Embarrassed and furious, he straightens his clothes and strides over to his son.
“How dare you hit me!” he yells.
“All right.” I position myself between them. “Easy, now.”
“Get out of my fucking way.” Philip pushes my chest, but although I’m younger than he is, I’m six inches taller and a whole lot heavier, so I don’t move.
“He’s upset, that’s all,” I say, holding Philip back with a hand on his chest. “Don’t make it worse.”
“Get your fucking hands off me.” He gives me a right hook that connects with my temple, making me see stars for a moment.
“You piece of shit!” I hit him back, and he stumbles and goes down.
“Enough!” Teariki yells. “I want everyone to calm down.”
Mum gets up. “Liza, can you take the children indoors please.”
“Aw…” they all say, wanting to watch the show, but Liza and her husband ferry them all inside, and soon we hear the strains of music from Moana drifting from the TV.
Mum comes to stand next to Teariki. He helps Philip up, the four of us forming a semi-circle in front of Rangi.
“I can’t believe you,” Mum says to all of us. “Fighting on Christmas Day, in front of the children.” She glares at Rangi. “You are sixteen now, a full-grown man, and you should know better.”
“He called Ellie a slut,” Rangi says tearfully. “I love her.”
She puts her hands on her hips and studies him for a moment. Her expression softens. Then her gaze slides to me and Philip. It hardens again. “And as for you two… you’re supposed to set an example to the children!”
“He started it,” I mumble.
“Henry,” she scolds, “Good Lord, what are you, twelve? If the two of you can’t act like grownups, you can both leave now.”
Philip ignores me and gestures at his son. “He announced he’d made a girl pregnant at the dinner table,” he says. “I’m sorry if I reacted badly, but I was a bit fucking shocked.”
“Stop swearing,” she snaps, holding up a finger. “We were all shocked, but let’s face it, it’s not the first time it’s happened, is it?” She lifts an eyebrow.
Oh shit, I’d forgotten—Philip got Rangi’s mother pregnant at sixteen, too.
He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze drops to the deck. I frown, thinking about the fact that he was eighteen when I went to Greenfield. Rangi was two by then, and Philip had to get a job. He’d ended up driving a delivery van, as it was the only thing he could find. He didn’t have the opportunity to better himself. There was no invitation to Greenfield for him, no adventure therapy or team-building exercises, no help to get into university. Mum hadn’t taken her nursing qualification back then, and so she wasn’t in a position to help him financially. For Philip, life has been one long struggle, made worse by having four children he can’t afford. Mum’s right, he’s not really in a position to criticize Rangi when he’s done the exact same thing four times.
She looks back at Rangi. “I’m sorry, love. How far along is she?”
“Eight weeks,” he says. He glances at me. “Her mum helped her figure it out.”
Philip frowns. Then he looks at me. “Wait… what? You knew?”
Rangi realizes his mistake and sends me a guilty look.
Ah, shit.
“He came to see me,” I reply, knowing there’s no point in denying it. “She’d told him she was pregnant and he didn’t know what to do. I bought them a pregnancy test so they could confirm it. That’s all.”
His eyes blaze with fury. He looks at his son. “Why did you go to him? Why didn’t you come to me?”
“Because he knew you’d react like this,” I reply.
“Shut up, I’m not talking to you.”
“Philip,” Mum scolds. “Enough. Let’s concentrate on Rangi. He didn’t get Ellie pregnant on purpose, and he hasn’t done it to spite you. It was a mistake, and he’s obviously upset about it.”
“At least you got to keep your baby,” Rangi says to his father.
“Yeah,” Philip replies, “what a great decision that turned out to be.”
“Philip!” Mum is horrified. Rangi looks crushed. I look at Philip, gutted for Rangi, but he refuses to meet my gaze.
“We should go,” Philip says. “I don’t want to spend one more minute in his company than I have to.” He shoots me a look then, and it’s full of bitterness.
“No,” I say, “you stay. The kids haven’t even finished their dinner. I’ll go.” I walk over to Mum and give her a hug. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “It was a lovely meal.”
“You don’t have to go.” Her eyes glisten.
“He’ll cool down if I leave.” I nod at Teariki, then I stop in front of Rangi. “Bro,” I say. “Do you want to come with me?”
Rangi looks up at me, then at his father.
“Stay where you are,” Philip tells him.
“Henry,” Mum says, “don’t make it worse.”
But I can see the pain in the boy’s face, and I’m furious with Philip for implying he wishes that he hadn’t kept Rangi.
“You’re sixteen,” I say to Rangi. “You’re old enough to leave home without his consent, if you want to.”
Rangi looks at his father again.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Philip says. He jabs a finger at me. “He’s my boy, not yours. It’s not my fault you’re a fucking Jaffa.” Jaffa—a seedless orange. I should take comfort in the fact that he’s chosen to pick on my infertility because I have no other weaknesses, but funnily enough I don’t find it comforting.
His eyes gleam, and his lips curve up. He knows he’s hurt me.
“Fuck you,” I whisper fiercely, fighting the urge to pummel him. He’s not worth it. I’m not going to lower myself to his level.
Instead, I look at Rangi. “Are you coming?”
He gives me a helpless look. “I can’t.” He’s too frightened of what Philip will do if he goes.
I go over to Mum, give her a hug, nod at Teariki, then head for the door without another look at my brother.
Outside, I get in my BMW, and within a few minutes I’m on the State Highway, heading toward Sumner Beach.
I spend the first five minutes of the journey cursing myself. At Kia Kaha I’m known for my calm, unflappable manner, but that’s only because the people I deal with at work are unable to penetrate my armor. Philip, however, knows exactly where to insert the blade and how deep to drive it.
I remember Juliette’s text about Cam: He knows right where to slide the knife. I replied: of course he does. That’s what happens when you’re with someone for a long time.
Do you think it always has to be like that?
No. I think if you truly love someone, even in an argument, you choose not to breach their defenses.
I know that the fact that Rangi confided in me hurt Philip, but that’s not my fault. I didn’t wound him on purpose. If I wanted to stick the knife in, I could—I’d mock his lack of education, his inability to earn a decent wage, the fact that none of his kids respect him, that none of the women he’s fathered children by have been faithful to him. But I don’t; I choose not to breach his defenses because he’s my brother and I love him.
Clearly, though, he doesn’t feel the same way about me.
I’m twenty-eight, a successful, grown man, and long past the age where I need to earn the respect of my big brother. On paper I’ve surpassed him in almost every way, and nobody would say he’s more successful. And yet I feel stuck in our childhood relationship, constantly trying to earn his approval and love.
I do it for my mother, and because deep down I’ve always hoped that if I could break through his resentment, we’d be able to share the positive sibling relationship I’ve always wanted.
Well, he can slide into poverty and misery for all I care. I’m fucking done with him.
The traffic is relatively light, and it only takes me fifteen minutes to get home. I slide the car into the garage, go into the house, kick off my Converses, grab a bottle of whisky, and take it out onto the deck. I pour a generous amount into the tumbler, throw myself into a chair, and knock back half the glass in one go.
Then I slide down in the chair and look out at the ocean.
My life feels as if it’s slipping away from me. How can I be so in control in business and so fucking useless in my personal life?
My marriage broke down, and at twenty-eight I’m already divorced. I’m unable to father children. I haven’t dated for two years, because I’m obsessed with a woman who belongs to another man, and she’s showing no real signs of leaving him for me. My father died. My brother hates me.
I earn a fortune, I live in a mansion, I have three cars, a couple dozen tailor-made suits, handmade leather shoes, and the biggest, most expensive iPhone, but it’s Christmas Day, and I’m sitting here, about to get drunk, alone.
So which of us, really, is the most successful?
Ah, Juliette…
I let out the longest sigh I’ve ever given, finish off my whisky, and pour another glass. I’m drinking too much lately, but it’s the only way to numb my misery. It’s weak, though, and I despise myself for it. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll start doing something about it. Today, I just want to forget.
I can’t forget her, though. She captivated me the first moment she walked into the bar, and it’s only gotten worse over the years. Now I’m obsessed, or, more correctly, possessed. She’s bewitched me. Bedeviled me. It’s all her fault.
But of course it’s not. Until we slept together, she hadn’t done anything to suggest she was interested in me except mess up the fucking Rubik’s Cube. And then I seduced her, and made her cheat on her partner, and now I’m making her life a misery, hounding her while she tries to stay loyal and faithful like any good partner should.
#PityPartyAndYou’reNotInvited.
I wonder what she’s doing right now?
I mustn’t contact her. I’ve already ruined my own family’s Christmas Day; I can’t ruin hers too.
I have another whisky instead.
Then one more.
The sun’s going down, and I’m more than a little drunk by the time I text her.
Juliette, I miss you, I yearn for you, I burn for you, I can’t stop thinking about you, I know I shouldn’t message you, I know I should leave you alone, but I can’t, you’re in my heart, my body, my soul, you’re haunting me, every time I close my eyes I can see you, your skin, your hair, your eyes, I can taste you, I remember what it was like to be inside you, to hear you say my name when you came, I love you, I want you, I need you.
I type the last word and press send, not giving myself time to think.
Then I throw my phone on the table and reach for the whisky bottle again.