I swallow. “I thought I did that back when . . . when . . .”
I don’t have to finish. He knows when he lost his son. “You didn’t, Gemma. That was not building. There was no rebirth from those ashes. You just stood in them for a very, very long time. You have to make a conscious choice to become better, do better. It’s scary, opening yourself up to be hurt, I know. But even if you don’t, you’ll hurt anyway. You’re hurting right now, aren’t you?” I meet his gaze. He only needs to look at me to see. “So you are,” he says gravely. “Then you know. You can’t escape everything in the end, so you might as well open yourself up to the good stuff along the way. You know, after your father passed away, I turned to the drink. I know you were busy dealing with your own stuff, as was your mother, and we didn’t see each other much. That was for the best. I was a mess. I did everything to numb the pain, and it worked. For a while. But then I missed things like Kam’s birth, your aunt and uncle renewing their vows, and I missed you. With Robbie’s help, he pulled me out of it, even though my boy was hurting, too. I vowed not to hide anymore. And sure, it hurts. Losing your son hurts. Losing your father hurts. But don’t let that pain color your whole life.” He sighs, thinking I’m not getting it. But I am.
I get up out of the pile of blankets and go to give him a hug. A big hug. I bury my head in his neck and let out a few tears. “I miss Dad,” I whisper before I break down again. He holds me tight and cries, too.
I break many times over the next few days. But each time, my whānau lifts me back up.
It’s January eighth when I bring myself out of my stupor. I feel worn down, naked, raw. But the sun is shining. The air is fresh. The world hurts but it’s beautiful, even with the pain.
I pick up Josh’s sketchbook and the pastels he left in the bus and start roaming over the peninsula around my grandfather’s place. I sit in three different places and draw, paint, smudge the landscapes. It’s so messy and imperfect, but life is messy and imperfect.
I put myself on the paper, bare for the world to see.
I paint and paint and paint.
“What are you going to do now?” my grandfather asks. He, Auntie Shelley, Uncle Robbie, Barker, and I are taking Mr. Orange to Paihia to catch the bus back to Auckland.
“I have ideas,” I say. I’m going back to my apartment, taking stock of my life, and then figuring out the next scary step. I’ll probably have to move back to my mother’s for a while to save money, to make money, but that doesn’t bother me. I need her at a time like this.
We say goodbye at the bus depot and I promise to call them, e-mail them, visit them more. I promise to reach out and reach in. I’m going to miss them to pieces.
But after I get on the coach bus for the journey back home, I notice that the ache I thought would multiply in their absence feels like it’s getting smaller. It’s healing.
There is of course, the pain I feel for Josh. The pain I caused myself. That hasn’t gone away. It hasn’t left me. It’s weird going back to a city that I know he’s still in. I wonder if I’ll run into him somewhere. I wonder what I’d say.
I know what I’d say. I’d tell him I’m sorry. I’d tell him I didn’t mean to hurt him. I’d tell him what he means to me in the big, bad world, how his arms are the ones that kept me safe, that his eyes are what still coax me out of my shell. He gave me the courage to try again, to create, to lay myself bare, and that won’t stop, even after he’s gone.
I want to tell him that I love him. So deeply that I’m afraid I’ll never be able to remove it, that I’ll have to carry it with me forever, like a badge. And I want to tell him that’s not a bad thing. It’s an honor to love him.
When I get back to my apartment, it’s just after dinner. Of course it’s empty except for the cat. I busy myself, cleaning even though Nyla is a neat freak. It’s weird to be back home after all this time. It doesn’t feel like home anymore. It feels cold and impersonal. Then I think, maybe it’s always been this way.
Maybe now I’m finally realizing that I need more than that.
I pour myself a glass of wine, sit down at the kitchen table, and watch Pink Floyd YouTube videos on my phone. The music stirs my sensitive heart, making me feel unbelievably restless inside.
I don’t know how long I sit there for, with Chairman Meow snaking around my legs, but I’m almost done with the whole bottle of wine when Nyla comes home.
“Gemma?” she asks in surprise as she places her messenger bag on the kitchen counter. I barely look at her. She smells like the hospital, her pale, freckled face looking tired from her shift, her red bun a mess. “I didn’t know you were coming home today.”