Adam wakes, his head in a fug and his neck stiff from lying across the armrest. His eyeballs feel like they’ve been thoroughly sandblasted. He blinks and blinks again. Slumped opposite in his armchair, one leg thrown over the armrest, Dad’s awake too.
‘Adam, mate, go upstairs to bed. Get some decent sleep,’ he encourages. ‘I’ll wake you as soon as I hear from Mum.’
Adam shakes his head. ‘Not sleepy.’
Actually, he’s wasted, but there’s no way he can go back to sleep. Too much nervous energy. Reminds him of the Christmas Eve he forced himself to stay awake to confirm the existence of Father Christmas. The daring plot filled six-year-old Adam with a heady mix of anticipation and dread: he desperately wanted to catch the big guy in the act, but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t get any presents. Funny, all these years later here he is again, up half the night straining for the sound of bells ringing. Anyway, Dad can’t talk: from the looks of him, he hasn’t slept any more than Adam. Smudges under his eyes suggest a pre-teen attack with an eye-liner, and he hasn’t shaved yet. Sitting up, Adam tips his head to his right shoulder and gives his neck a rub.
Around three last night, Dad had gone out for an hour or two. He’d driven along the road to the dairy and back, then there and back again, and once again but slower this time, and finally he’d simply driven around and around looking for Mum while Adam had waited at home. Adam had passed the time watching TV, channel surfing between two naff old films he’d probably already seen six times each, but he couldn’t sit still; instead pacing back and forth in front of the screen in an effort to burn off his anxiety. When the films were over, Dad was still out, so he’d gone upstairs and tried to kill half an hour playing Morterain’s Curse. But it was useless, his heart just wasn’t in it. He kept thinking about Mum and where she might be. Had she said something to Adam about where she was going tonight? Something he’d missed? His mind fizzed, synapses all searching for the snippet of information that would tell him where she had got to. Frustrated, he’d come back downstairs and made himself a cup of tea—black—which he drank in the dark. Afterwards, he stood at the lounge window staring out into the empty street, gathering moss. Eventually, Dad came home and took over Adam’s vigil at the window. Adam had dozed on the sofa, but it can’t have been for long, maybe an hour. Long enough to get a stiff neck, anyway. He reaches for his phone and checks his text messages for the millionth time.
Still nothing.
Pale grey light filters in through the open curtains. Yawning, Adam gazes out to the street. Over the road, their neighbour starts out on his morning run. His t-shirt declares him a marathon finisher, and he’s wearing compression pants Adam wouldn’t be seen dead in. Explains why Beckett runs so early. A car passes, the driver gives Beckett a wave. The neighbourhood is coming to life. Mum has stayed out all night.
‘Where is she?’ Adam whispers into the room.
‘I don’t know, son.’
They wait until 7:00am before contacting the police again. A major pile-up on State Highway 2 during the night meant they hadn’t come out to the house last night as all available officers had been diverted to the accident site, but, in any case, the officer on duty says it’s too early for Dad and Adam to be alarmed. People go AWOL all the time, he says, and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything untoward has happened. Besides, Mrs Creighton is an adult and probably quite capable of looking after herself. The officer confirms someone will be out to take Mrs Creighton’s details later today, although he can’t specify exactly when.
‘They’ll send someone out as soon as they can,’ Dad murmurs. Using a bus wiper motion, he scrubs at his eyes with his fingers. ‘I better call the school,’ he says from behind his hands. But in the end, Adam phones the school attendance line himself because Dad is busy on his cell telling Marilyn that she and Kev will have to handle things at the yard and to call in Jim Winiata, who does the Sunday shift, if things get too pushed.
‘We should probably ring Gran, too,’ Adam suggests, giving his head a good scratch where it was squashed against the sofa.
Dad sighs heavily. ‘Maybe later, eh? Give me a chance to get cleaned up first.’ He trudges upstairs to take the first shower.
Adam goes through to the kitchen. Tries to pretend it’s a day like any other. He switches on the radio: ‘Two people are dead and another four are in critical condition after a three-vehicle collision on State Highway 2 outside Te Puna last night. Motorists should expect long delays...’ Adam opens the pantry, selects a sachet of his favourite porridge—apple and sultana—and is about to cut it open when he remembers they’re out of milk. Instead, he slips two slices of bread in the toaster. He fills the kettle, turns it on and gets two cups out of the cupboard, spooning coffee into each. Adam pushes the toaster down a second time, then takes the cheese out of the fridge, pulls back the plastic wrapper and cuts himself a couple of slices. It’s gone a bit crumbly. Adam brushes the flakes onto the floor. His toast pops. Adam butters it, tops it with cheese. He licks a smear of butter off his fingers. On the radio, Katy Perry is kissing a girl and liking it.
The phone! Adam grabs it.
‘Hello?’ His heart thuds.
‘Hello, Adam.’ It’s Gran. Adam chokes back the fur ball in his throat. They should have called her earlier. ‘Can I speak to Mum please, love? I need to ask her if she’s planning on seeing Grandpa today.’
Adam splutters. ‘She can’t. You can’t.’
‘She still in the shower? Ask her to call me back in ten minutes, will you?’
‘She’s not in the shower.’
‘Well, can I speak to her, please?’ Gran demands.
‘No. She’s not here.’
‘Not there? She’s out early. What time are you expecting her back?’
The words tumble out. ‘We don’t know. She hasn’t been home. She didn’t come home all last night. We don’t know where she is.’ Then, his eye on the stairs in the hope Dad might miraculously appear to save him from the task, Adam tells Gran everything. Boy, does she get her knickers in a twist when she realises Dad deliberately kept her out of the loop. Unspeakable, is how she describes it. Unfortunately, it doesn’t apply to Gran, who has plenty to say on the matter. It occurs to Adam that Gran is way more furious than she should be. So they didn’t tell her straight away that Mum was missing, at least their intentions had been noble.
‘But Gran, there wasn’t anything anyone could’ve done in the middle of night,’ Adam insists. ‘We didn’t want to worry you.’
‘That’s no excuse.’
‘We didn’t think...’
‘Clearly not!’ On airwaves, the guys from Nickelback tell Adam to keep breathing.
‘We’ve called everyone on the neighbourhood watch list,’ Adam says.
‘Maria?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aunty Mandy?’ Over the phone, Gran’s voice rises to a crescendo. Adam flinches. They should have called her before.
‘No, not yet. We called the police, though. They’re going to send someone this morning.’
‘I’m coming over.’ A statement. Gran’s about to embark on a crusade.
‘But, Gran, what if Mum calls or turns up at your place?’ Adam says quickly. ‘Don’t you think it would be better for you to stay at home? Mum’s just as likely to contact you.’ Luckily, common sense prevails. Gran goes on a bit, still angry that Dad lied to her, but finally agrees to stay at home if Adam promises to call the minute—the minute, mind—there’s any news.
Relieved to have the conversation over, Adam carries the remains of his toast through to the kitchen. He’s left the cheese unwrapped on the bench. Drying out, the cut end is waxing yellow. Adam reseals the packet, but it’s probably too late to stop it cracking.