Aftershock Page 20

  Finally, she heard the click of connection. A man answered and she took a deep breath.

  David?

  There was a pause, oddly muffled.

  Sorry, love . . . Like to leave a message?

  New Zealand accent, hesitation. A woman’s voice in the background that Jules thought she recognized. Is that Amanda I hear?

  Amanda? She could tell he was pulling the phone away from his face, to gesture maybe, or hand it off. But then his voice came back stronger. Ah, sorry again, love. Who’s calling?

  This is Jules. David’s ex-wife? Returning his call.

  Aw, yeah. He seemed interested by this information, but then said nothing more. Jules started to fume.

  And who might you be?

  Aye, I might be Lance. I’ll tell ’im you called, then, yeah?

  Wait—is my daughter there? Chloe?

  Now there was a longer silence, a held-breath silence, no one moving on either end.

  Ah, sorry, love, Chlo’s not around either, hey. She’s fine, though, everyone’s fine. I’ll pass your message on, yeah? Oi! Must go, sorry.

  Anxiety pinging faintly, very faintly, on her less than optimal parental radar, she hung up and wondered what havoc her daughter was wreaking on her ex-husband’s life that would lead someone to reassure her that “everyone’s fine.”

  The rattle-bang of the back door let her know Farzan had gone down for a smoke. Unable to decide if it was to hang out with a guy she wasn’t sure she liked or to bum one of the cigarettes she didn’t really smoke, she went down to join him.

  Work.

  I made a series of phone calls: my bank in Canada, to cancel my card. A replacement would arrive in about a week. But Jansen had used the card twice, left my account over a thousand dollars short, which didn’t leave me much. Not enough by far.

  I called Jules, who didn’t pick up. Typical. Left a message. Regretted it right away.

  I called the police. As predicted, they couldn’t do much. “Jansen” had checked in to the hostel claiming to have been robbed, so no one saw a passport, no one could verify his identity. Chandra and I couldn’t even agree about where he was from. The cab company could confirm he’d taken a cab to the airport, but there was no record of anyone by that name getting on a flight. I asked if they would look at security footage, even offered to sit with a sketch artist, but was told the police resources for such a petty crime were pretty much tapped out.

  There’s guys like him who make a living off cons and such, a beefy and red-nosed cop told me. Preyin’ on low-security travellers such as yourself. All we can do is tell ya to be more careful.

  It had been stupid, I could now admit, to leave practically all my cash in my moneybelt. To use my bank card, enter my pass code, without looking over my shoulder. To leave all my belongings in the bar while I showered. I’d known he was a dick. I hadn’t known he was a thief. Well, not until I’d seen Tanga’s matau (the thought of which made me feel sick about my inadvertent collaboration). Regardless, it was stupid to rely on some unspoken travellers’ code of honour when, as I knew, even your own mother can let you down.

  But, it was only money. I hadn’t been hurt. And I wasn’t totally desperate yet, although I would be soon. I still had my credit card, but that was really meant for emergencies. Once I used it, I’d have to get Jules to make the payments, which, as safety nets went, was pretty shaky.

  I was stuck where I was for at least a week waiting for my bank card. With low hopes, I emailed Lee to see how much longer she’d be at Piha, to suss out if she even wanted to see me again. And I kept trying Jules and David, but in total vain.

  CHANDRA HAD PRETTY much saved my life, I thought as I climbed to the third floor with my broom and garbage bags. She took some kind of pity on me and offered me a couple weeks’ work changing beds, cleaning toilets, sweeping floors. Horrible work, I thought at first. Jules had always had a cleaning service, so I had pretty limited experience with cleaning toilets, let alone scrubbing down showers or picking up other people’s trash.

  I had, however, spent a lot of time in locker rooms, and hockey players can be full-on disgusting, so I wasn’t super squeamish about what Jules would call wet-mess: basically, anything organic in origin—bodily fluids, food, pieces of nature that made their way indoors. Jules would not have reacted well, for example, to the sunflower seed shells under the window in the boys’ dorm. Or the pair of underwear, way at the back under a bunk. Or the chunks of dried mud, scraped off someone’s post-hike boots.

  I’ll admit I was glad to have my rubber gloves as I used the broom to retrieve the underwear, flicking them into my garbage bag with a wrist shot and trying not to dwell on whether or not they were clean.

  But I felt satisfied with myself, like embracing the dirt kind of connected me to the world, made me a part of it in a way I didn’t always feel. Material objects meeting my own bodily boundaries. Which I knew was exactly what Jules would react to; I could feel my own latent reaction to the messiness of human beings, their tendency to leak beyond their containers.

  In a weird way, I loved the job. I found myself developing an appreciation for the filth of travellers who had better things to do than worry about the artifacts they shed as they went about their lives.

  I WAS BEHIND schedule again. By the time I got to the kitchen with my mop and bucket, people were already trying to unpack food into cubbyholes I hadn’t yet cleared out, trying to make tea on a stove I hadn’t scrubbed, putting dirty plates into a dishwasher I hadn’t emptied. I tried to navigate the chaos and do my work, but then Chandra came in, and that was that.

  Chlo! Hon, what on earth is going on in here?

  I’m just trying to empty—

  This whole kitchen should have been done this morning.

  She shook her head, staring at me. I waited, in limbo, clean plates in one hand and dirty in the other, totally unsure which way to turn. Chandra took command:

  Alright, everyone, just label your stuff and pile it on the counter till we get some space cleared out, right? Chlo, we’ll talk when you’re done.

  I finished the kitchen under a spectre of shame, the new arrivals looking at me with pity and scorn.

  WHEN I WAS finally done my shift, I went into the office to check my email.

  I logged on and held my breath when I saw a new message from surfmonkey99:

  Still at Piha, tourney got pushed, now competing the 15th-20th. See ya if I see ya. (Hope I see ya.) xo Lee.

  I felt my heart swoop, soar and dive.

  I was still staring at it a couple minutes later when Chandra came in, shut the door behind her and put on her serious face.

  Chlo, hon, we have to— Well, you’re smiling! What are you so happy about?

  She’s still there. I haven’t missed her and she wants me to come.

  I was gushing, but I didn’t care. Chandra grinned at me.

  Aw, you finally heard from your girl. That’s great, Chlo!

  But the only thing is, I would have to leave . . . like, tonight, I think. I tried to look pained, knowing I was about to leave Chandra and Nick in the lurch.

  Aw, look at ya! You have to go. What’s her name again?

  Lee.

  See, even the way you say her name—ya must go. She beamed at me for a moment too long, deciding something. Anyway, to be honest, Chlo . . . I came in here to tell you we’d have to let you go.

  What?

  You’re too slow. And rather sloppy, if you must know. You know I like you, but this . . . Well, you’re good at other things, right?

  I snorted. Well, obviously.

  The hurt on Chandra’s face made me backpedal.

  I mean, I like it here and everything, but . . .

  I git that, hon. But this is our place, yeah? Mine and Nick’s. And we . . . well, we like to look after it. I’m sorry, Chlo, but today’s your last day. But listen, it all works out, yeah? I’ll even add the bus fare to your pay. Oh and hey, this came.

  She handed me an envelope, a flat a
nd rigid rectangle inside it: my new bank card.

  I went upstairs to pack. I started stuffing clothes into my duffle and got about half done before I stopped short. Feeling the thrill of impulse, I pulled everything out again, picked out what I really needed—my favourite T-shirts, underwear and socks, extra jeans, toiletries, a hoodie, flip-flops—and crammed it into my day pack. Everything else went back into the duffle, and I dropped the whole thing at the Lost and Found.

  My load felt lighter in so many ways.

  My bus wasn’t till midnight. Before I left, I tried calling each of my parents one more time.

  Call.

  Hello?

  Hi.

  Groggy and disoriented, the line between dream and waking wavered.

  Chloe?

  Obviously.

  Well. Nice of you to check in. Jules knew she sounded angry, which wasn’t her intent, but her worry had curled itself into a different shape and now came shooting out of her mouth in attack mode.

  She heard a sharp expulsion of air.

  So, I guess you didn’t get my message.

  Funny, that’s what I was going to ask you.

  She sat down on the toilet seat and avoided looking at her reflection by resting her eyes on her mug shot. Drew was right: she looked terrible. Black pockets under her eyes, greying hair unwashed and stiff. Wood-grain lines around her mouth and eyes that weren’t there a year ago. Or was it five years ago. Who kept track of these things.

  You left me a message?

  At your dad’s. Someone named Vance? Or Lance?

  So anyway, I was robbed, said Chloe, and Jules’s eyes went involuntarily to her reflection, which looked as alarmed as she felt, and not much better than the mug shot.

  Excuse me?

  Chloe told her the story, and later Jules would admit to herself that she did not react well.

  Leaving your valuables unattended. Brilliant.

  A part of her wanted to swoop in and scoop her daughter out of there, save everything, protect her always. But it was too late for that. Much too late.

  After a silence came the sandpaper rasp of a deep, bracing breath, amplified by digitized signals sent to space and back.

  I, like, knew the guy. Sort of. But the asshole was gone by the time I noticed.

  How much money are we talking about?

  I feel bad enough without you lecturing me.

  Jules counted to five, mustering calm.

  How much?

  There was a long silence, and she wondered if Chloe was counting to five.

  ’Bout a thousand bucks.

  Jeezus, Chloe. You’ve cancelled your card?

  I’m broke, not stupid.

  Oh! You want money.

  Well. This could ruin my whole trip.

  Bet school’s looking pretty good.

  I have a job, but it’s not—

  Chloe, if you had any idea what I’m going through—

  What you’re going through?

  You have two parents. Try the one who’s not ten thousand miles away.

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  I just can’t deal with this right now. You’ll have to—

  Chloe cut her off with a tirade full of expletives and a reference to working the streets for money, which ended with the not-unfounded accusation, It’s always about you, isn’t it, Mother? Before she terminated the call.

  JULES STARED AT her bedraggled reflection, breath rasping, tremulous in her fragile husk. She knew she’d lashed out, knew Chloe was likewise going for shock value, but it didn’t help; between them, they had trashed the conversation, veered it straight into the realm of raw verbal assault that left Jules feeling desiccated.

  The clock on her phone said 8 a.m. She knew Drew would be at the office. She’d been hearing football games playing downstairs for hours already. How there could even be that much football was a mystery, but Farzan seemed able to watch it any time of day.

  Her phone was charged, so she unplugged it and dialed David’s number again. This time a woman answered.

  Amanda?

  Jules stood at her window and watched the Last Tree, its bare, gesticulating branches.

  Yes? Her voice was clipped, almost hostile, like she already knew who it was.

  It’s Jules. Is David—

  But already she could hear the phone being passed off.

  It’s your ex-wife.

  Bitch, thought Jules. The construction crews were in full force in the condo development one block over. The grid of iron girders mapped the tree branches onto a graph, lines criss-crossing in erratic patterns of growth and decline. Grinding and rumbling made the glass shake. Or maybe it was just the wind.

  Hi, Jules, said the voice she’d once been married to for fifteen years. She slammed her feelings of nostalgia into a box, clamped it shut. David. I just spoke to Chloe—

  Oh, good. That’s good. Where is she?

  That’s what I’d like to know. Why isn’t she staying with you?

  Ah. She was.

  She knew, just knew, thought she could even hear him dragging his hand over his balding head. She used to tell him that was why his hairline was receding, this constant wiping of his gleaming pate whenever he was embarrassed or didn’t want to tell her something.

  David. She heard herself using that acid-and-saccharine voice she didn’t think she’d ever used on anyone else. Where is my daughter?

  Well. She went sailing with Lance?

  Who’s Lance? Does he know where she is?

  Sort of . . . Not sure. Things are a bit . . . weird around here.

  His voice was drifting away, background noise submerging it. Nearby, a child spoke incoherently, and Amanda answered, melodious and sweet.

  David, she started, but then his voice was suddenly stronger and faster:

  Gotta go, Jules. Talk later.

  Her phone beeped, then went silent as the call cut off.

  Less than a month, and already David had lost track of Chloe. Jules was on the other side of the planet on fucking house arrest and she’d spoken to her more recently than he had.

  She scanned through her emails until she found the one with Chloe’s New Zealand cell number. Had David even tried calling it? Yes, he had, because she found all his emails too, his mounting concern that neither Jules nor Chloe was answering his calls. She dialed the eleven digits Chloe had sent her and waited, preparing to quote unquote be nice.

  When it went straight to voice mail, she tried not to panic. She’d just talked to her minutes ago, and she’d been fine. She was fine. Like Jules had told Dr. Morrow: she wasn’t worried.

  Chloe had said she’d left Jules a voice message. Jules sat on a chair by the window and skipped through her voice mail until she found it. It was more than a week old, and she sounded utterly dejected, said she couldn’t even pay for her hostel because she’d lost her wallet. She didn’t know what to do; she had no money; she started crying.

  I think I’ve really fucked up.

  Jules froze, her hand locked onto her phone, as she listened to the grain of her daughter’s voice. It had been many years since she’d heard Chloe cry, but she could still read the sound like a mystic, every hiccup loaded with meaning and nuance.

  I tried Dad, but I can’t get through.

  Her voice was torn at the edges, a squeak of hysteria weaving around the upper register. Then she said:

  I guess Christchurch is all shut down ’cause of that big aftershock.

  Aftershock.

  Jules tried to reconcile this new information with her conversation with David, his claim that things had been “weird,” a claim she had chalked up to his usual stunned reaction to the world. He’d sounded more or less okay, and clearly the phones were back up, but it did not make her feel good.

  And I’ve lost my phone, Chloe was saying as she broke into a racking sob and abruptly hung up.

  Jules sat with the phone against her ear for several seconds, then lowered it into her lap, stared blindly out the window, wishing
, for the first time she could remember, that she was a better person. That she even knew how to be better. That her reaction in this moment wasn’t to crave, in the way she was suddenly craving, the pills she didn’t have.

  When the doorbell rang, she ignored it. It would never be for her. But it rang again, and again, the eight-note sequence persistently interrupting itself two or three notes in, refusing to take the implicit Go Away for an answer. Farzan probably couldn’t even hear it over his football game. Jules went down to put an end to it.

  She opened the door to Rod, literally standing there with his hat in his hands. In winter he liked to wear a fedora over his black scarecrow shag under the misguided impression it made him look distinguished rather than slightly shifty. He was holding said hat in front of him, staring hard at its rotating brim.

  Oh no, not you.

  Rod looked up, eyes puppy-dog pathetic—but also, ever so slightly, baring his teeth. Now why would you say that?

  What do you want, Rod?

  He smiled his best disarming smile. Invite me in?

  Jules chewed on her lip—an old habit, for years kept at bay by lipstick, but not these days.

  Alright. It was below freezing outside, after all.

  Drew’s house had an actual foyer, a vaulted front hall he swore was big enough for Ping-Pong. But when the door closed, and all Jules could hear, other than the faint sportscast upstairs, was the shuffling and breathing of the two of them, she tensed. It felt intimate and wrong. She planted her feet apart, shoulder width, and crossed her arms.

  What do you want?

  She watched as he cloaked himself in the charming but vulnerable schoolboy, with the twinkle in his eye that suggested only she could help him and only he could help her. But she felt a sudden keen sense of the passage of time, of time wasted and time running out.