Chapter Two
Linc
I walk to the museum’s entrance, pull out my phone, and call for an Uber. While I’m waiting for a ride to pop up, Joel appears at my side.
“I could have driven you there,” he says.
The phone registers a Toyota Prius four minutes away, and I press accept. “Ah, it’s okay. It’s not far.”
“So you’re coming back here afterward?”
I nod.
We study each other in the warm January sunshine.
“Dad wouldn’t like it,” Joel says eventually.
“So don’t tell him.”
Joel’s lips twitch, and I know he’s probably feeling the same as me, like we’re sixteen again, smuggling a pack of beers into the barn, where we used to hide, as alcohol was forbidden at Greenfield. Atticus knew, of course. Joel’s dad was smarter than I gave him credit for, and he always let us get away with just enough to make us think we were being rebellious. I respected him then, though, and I respect him now. He loves his daughter, and he only wants what’s best for her. But I’m no longer under his jurisdiction, and I don’t have to answer to him anymore.
“Did you know she’d be here?” Joel asks. “When you came to meet me?”
“I had no idea. I didn’t even know she was still into archaeology.”
It’s an outright lie. I’ve never asked Joel about her, but I have, of course, Googled her, and searched for her on social media. She has Facebook and Instagram accounts, but they’re both private, and Atticus gave me strict instructions not to contact her, so I didn’t want to send her a friend request. But I know she went to Victoria University here in Wellington. And I knew she was working at the National Museum.
“She got a First-Class Honors degree in Archaeology,” Joel informs me, “and she’s taking a Master’s now. She’s smarter than you and I put together.”
I laugh. “Yeah. That doesn’t surprise me. She was always the most intelligent person in the room, even as a kid. So… she’s not… you know… married or anything?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No…” He narrows his eyes. “Are you here to cause trouble for her?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. There’s only so much havoc even I can cause in a couple of days.”
Joel snorts. “Right.”
I grin and clap him on the shoulder. “Relax, bro. It’s good to see you.”
He gives a reluctant smile. “Yeah, good to see you, too.”
I hesitate then. “I’m so sorry that your mum has been so unwell.” He told me just a week ago, when I contacted him to say I was coming to New Zealand, that his mother was recovering from breast cancer. I was very fond of Clemmie Bell, who was more like a mother to me than my own, and a very open-hearted, warm, and friendly woman.
“Thanks,” he says. “Elora spent a few months at home with her last year. It was a tough time for all of us, but she’s doing really well.”
“I’m glad.” I watch the Prius draw up. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“All right. Good luck. And Linc… I’m sorry about your father.”
I study the ground for a moment. “Don’t be,” I say eventually. “I’m not.” I give him a wave, get in the Prius, and buckle myself in.
As the Uber snakes through the busy streets of Wellington, I look out of the window, but I’m not really seeing the streets and shops. In my mind’s eye, all I can see are those blue eyes of Lora’s that, even when she was fourteen, reminded me of a summer sky, bright and beautiful.
In many ways, she hasn’t changed at all. She still looks demure in her white blouse, black trousers, and sensible shoes, with her hair in a bun, her makeup carefully applied in neutral shades. I bet she wears sensible white cotton underwear without a touch of lace.
Jesus, why does that turn me on so much?
She might look like a librarian, but there was something about her expression that sent my thermostat shooting up, just like it did when we were young, when her eyes begged me to kiss her.
It sounds as if she’s still single, though. I wonder why? I thought some intellectual sort at uni would have snapped her up and enjoyed stripping the innocence from those blue eyes.
I think about her telling her friends about the Bell Ring, and the way she’d looked at me, obviously remembering the day she’d told me about it. New to Greenfield, sporting half a dozen scars on my face and an attitude the size of Australia, I’d been quick to scoff at the Bell family’s interest in history and archaeology, saying it was dull and boring and a subject for nerds. It had been ten-year-old Elora who had ignited the spark of interest inside me with her tales of adventure and exploration as we pored over her dusty old atlas. And it was Elora who’d continued to fan the flames, her own passion for the past igniting something deep within the boy who’d had so little in his life to latch on to.
Lost in memories, I barely notice the houses flashing by. When the Prius comes to a halt, it’s with some surprise that I see we’ve arrived. I thank the driver, get out, and watch him leave.
On my right, the graves of the older part of the cemetery stretch away into the distance, framed by the Wellington hills and the cloudy skies above them. I turn and look at the building on my left with an archaeologist’s eye, remembering what I’d read about it online. The single story, brick-built crematorium and chapel building is listed, and was built in the Edwardian-Romanesque style. It bears the date 1909 above the door. The stained-glass windows are Irish-made, commissioned from the Irish glass company An Tur Gloine, which means Tower of Glass. There are six of them, the most important set of twentieth century imported windows of their kind in New Zealand.
I’m trying to distract myself, but it’s not working. My heart is starting to race. Not for the first time, I wish I hadn’t come. This was a mistake.
I’m on the verge of turning and walking away when I see a young man come through the doorway. He stares at me, and his face registers shock.
“Linc?” he says.
“Hey, Sean.” I walk up to him. My younger brother is a few inches shorter than me, wide and stocky, like our father was, with his distinctive dark-blond hair and blue eyes. We don’t look alike at all, really.
“I didn’t think you were going to make it,” he says. “We’re about to start.”
I study his face, not knowing what to say. We’ve stayed in touch—we exchange emails at Christmas, and I sent him a present when he got married—but we’re not close. What do you say to a sibling you abandoned? First when I went to Greenfield, and then again when I left the country? ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t come close to covering it.
“It’s good to see you,” I opt for, and I open my arms. I half expect him to ignore them, or maybe get angry and tell me to fuck off, but he doesn’t do either of those; he throws his arms around me, and we exchange a bearhug that makes my throat tighten.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispers.
“Me too,” I say gruffly. I release him, and he moves back, eyes shining.
“Does Mum know you’re coming?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“You’ll probably give her a fucking heart attack,” he says. He looks around, checks that nobody else is on their way, then indicates for me to follow him inside. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
I walk behind him and stop at the back of the rows of pews. There are about fifty people here, which surprises me. I half expect everyone to be holding their own nail, prepared to hammer it into the coffin themselves.
Sean gestures for me to follow him to the front, but I shake my head. He nods and walks down the aisle, and I watch him slide into the front pew behind a woman with salt-and-pepper hair that hangs around her shoulders in unruly waves. He says something to her, and she bends her head toward him, says something, then looks over her shoulder.
Nancy Green stares at me, unsmiling.
I stare back. I haven’t seen her for ten years. We’ve exchanged a few awkward, stilted emails over the time we’ve been apart, and I called her on her fiftieth birthday and spoke to her for about ten minutes. I feel no connection with this woman. No love flows between us.
Eventually, she turns back as the vicar takes his place and begins speaking. Feeling queasy, I slide into the end of the nearest empty pew and fix my gaze on the coffin resting to one side.
The vicar begins the service by extolling Don Green’s virtues, saying what a proud father and honorable husband he was. How hard he worked for his family. How he was such a good friend to his mates.
He reads Psalm 23 and Psalm 130. Tells us about forgiveness and mercy, and how Dad will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
And then the congregation sings the hymns, and all I can think is how fucking bizarre and ironic it all is. Dad had no amazing grace. He barely rose before ten a.m., so he would never have seen the first dew fall or heard the blackbird speak. Nothing was bright and beautiful when he was around.
By the end of the service, I’m filled with disbelief and anger. I don’t want any part of a God who would allow that animal into his house. Fuck forgiveness. Fuck mercy. We should all get what we deserve, and Dad deserves to fucking burn.
At the end of the service comes the moment I’ve been waiting for. The curtains part and the coffin trundles away, ready to be burned to ashes. That’s it. He’s gone. It’s over.
If I asked, I wonder whether they’d let me go and watch the coffin be consumed by the flames.
As everyone starts getting to their feet, I walk outside, into the fresh air, go around the side of the building, and lean against the wall, my hands on my knees. Anger, resentment, and a dozen other unexpected emotions make my stomach churn and acid rise to burn my throat, and before I can stop myself, I vomit into the bushes.
When it’s over, I wipe my mouth, feeling angry and shaky. Fuck this. I’ve seen what I came to see. I can go now.
As I straighten, though, someone says, “Linc,” and I turn to see my mother standing at the top of the path, watching me.
I walk toward her and stop when I’m about two feet away. She’s all skin and bones, everything about her a sharp angle from her chin to her shoulders to her elbows. If she hugged me, it’d be like being hugged by a skeletal tree, stripped of its leaves in winter. Not that she will. I can’t remember her ever giving me a hug.
It makes me think of Elora, and the way she threw her arms around me as soon as I saw her. She was all soft curves, from her pink cheeks to her full breasts to the swell of her hips, and I feel an ache inside I can’t explain.
“You came,” my mother says.
“I wanted to make sure he was really dead,” I reply.
Her brown eyes are as flat and lifeless as I remember, but as she studies me, they light up, just a little. “You look just like him,” she murmurs.
I frown, because I know I look nothing like my dad, not my height, my build, or the color of my hair.
“Don knew,” she says. “That’s why he hated you so much.”
I blink. “Knew what?”
“That you weren’t his.”
Everything vanishes. The building, the people spilling out of the door, the graves on the other side of the road, the green grass and blue sky, the sound of birdsong. Someone’s sucked all the air away, and I’m standing in a vacuum.
She waits patiently for the news to register. My jaw has dropped, but my brain won’t function. I control-alt-delete it, try to reboot it, but I just keep getting the blue screen of death.
“What?” I say.
“I had an affair,” she says. From her tone, she could be reading a dull political text. “A couple of years into our marriage. His name was Edmund Mansfield. Don caught us together. He beat Ed pretty badly. Told him if he came near me again, he’d kill him. I never saw him again. It was clear as you grew up that you weren’t Don’s son. You look just like Ed.” Her gaze lingers on my hair, my face, the distance in her eyes telling me she’s seeing him, not me.
“That doesn’t mean I’m his son.” My heart is racing, and I’m struggling to catch my breath.
“I wasn’t sleeping with Don at the time,” she says. “We’d had a big argument. It’s one reason I went with Ed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Don made me promise not to.”
I swallow hard. “He just decided to punish me for it for fourteen years.”
She doesn’t look guilty or upset. She returns my gaze calmly.
I’m vaguely aware of Sean standing beside me. How long has he been there? Did he hear everything? He was always Dad’s favorite. Now I know why.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” I whisper to her. “Why didn’t you leave and take us with you? How could you let him do that to me?”
“I’m not a strong person,” she says. A statement, with no guilt or resentment attached.
I understand. Dad was a monster who wanted to control everyone and everything around him, and who punished those who didn’t fall into line. It was hard for me to stand up to him; it was impossible for a woman to.
But I was her child, and it was her responsibility to look after me. Frustration and fury sweep over me. “He beat me every day, Mum. He put me in hospital, for fuck’s sake.” My voice breaks.
Still, she says nothing. Sean puts a hand on my arm, which feels like a warning, although he doesn’t say anything.
You’re supposed to love your mother. Every Mother’s Day, I see it in the cards and on the adverts for gifts—the earrings, perfume, and chocolates you’re supposed to buy to say thank you for your love.
But I hate her. I feel guilty for thinking it, but it’s the truth. She’s never defended me or protected me. She’s never been in my corner.
This is pointless. It’s too little, too late. I gather my wits together as if I’m catching chickens and stuffing them in a bag. I need to leave before I say something I’ll regret.
“Does he know about me?” I ask. “Edmund?”
She shakes her head.
I have a thousand questions I want to ask. But I don’t want to spend one more minute in her presence.
I look at Sean. His face doesn’t register surprise—he knows, or he’d guessed, anyway.
I turn and, without another word, I walk away.
*
I walk all the way back, through the Botanic Gardens and past the Beehive to the waterfront. It takes me over an hour, walking fast. It rains at one point, warm summer rain, soaking my suit and flattening my hair to my head, but I barely register it.
I’d like to say I take the time to think about my predicament and ruminate on my past, but I don’t. Instead, thoughts and emotions churn around in one big mess, like a bucketful of animal viscera tossed in a washing machine. I arrive at the museum rumpled and exhausted with aching feet, and I stand out the front and realize I can’t go in like this. I should have gone back to my hotel, but I can’t even remember what it’s called at the moment, let alone where to find it.
My feet continue walking, down Jervois Quay and then off toward Frank Kitts Park, and I end up on the waterfront by the Wahine Memorial. I read the plaque on the front, which explains how fifty-one people died when the ship sank off Steeple Rock in 1968, and I think about how, when I was nine, my father forced my head under the water in the bath and kept me there, and how I thought I was going to drown. About when I was eleven and he held my hand on the hob and burned it so badly I still have the scars. About the day before my fourteenth birthday, when he took a golf club to me and beat me repeatedly around my back, shoulders, and head. And a small part of me recalls feeling a thrill as he did it, because I knew he was going too far, and it meant they’d finally take me away from him. He did time for that, two years, I think. He could have done two hundred years, and it still wouldn’t have been enough.
I sink onto the wall and gaze out across Lambton Quay.
All these years, I’ve felt as if I have a demon inside me, my father’s DNA forming a double helix of cruelty and spitefulness I knew was inseparable from mine. But, like the sun coming out, the realization sinks in that he wasn’t my father. I haven’t inherited a single thing from him. I don’t have his blood. He’s nothing to do with me.
It’s as if someone has reached down and gently undone the padlock around my ankle, and the weight pulling me down has lifted.
It starts raining again. At least I think that’s why my face is wet.