When Dad and Adam get home after the television broadcast, Aunty Mandy is in the kitchen, stacking the dishwasher. From behind, she looks a bit like Mum for a second. Adam’s adrenalin spikes, but too quickly his brain registers that the shape of the shoulders isn’t right, and her hair, although the right colour and texture, falls further down her back. The adrenalin withdrawal is brutal. Adam chokes back a sob.
Aunty Mandy follows them through to the lounge, drying her hands on a tea towel.
‘I watched it live on the early news. Adam, you did really, really well. Isn’t that right, Phil?’
Dad nods in agreement, ‘Yes, he did, Mandy, really well.’
‘You must be tremendously proud of the way he’s holding up these past few days. He’s been so brave throughout it all.’ Aunty Mandy’s response to all this has been to rabbit on and on, as if incessant talking would fill up the space that used to be occupied by Mum. She arrived on the second day and set up camp in the spare room, the one Dad pretends to use as a home office. Adam supposes it’s been good, really. They couldn’t have gone out otherwise. Dad needed to check in at the dealership, and Adam had to take back Mrs Steele’s empty casserole dish. Who would’ve manned the phone?
Mum might’ve called.
Aunty Mandy had installed herself as their in-house secretary: fielding calls, deflecting the media, calling friends and neighbours, heating up curries and cottage pies the neighbours had dropped in, and making a million cups of insipid tea, not like the stiff brew Mum prefers.
Adam’s cousins, Brent and Gabe, are already at uni. They couldn't get away fast enough, Aunty Mandy said. So there’s only Adam's Uncle Peri at home and, according to Aunty Mandy, it won’t hurt him to have to fend for himself for a change. It might even teach him to appreciate her, although Adam doubts that. He suspects his Uncle Peri has his feet up on the coffee table right now, sipping his beer and enjoying some delicious peace and quiet.
Adam’s aunt is still gassing. ‘I expect you’re feeling a bit washed out, Adam? I’m sure it can’t have been easy. But if my sister has run away because she’s a bit depressed, then your message is bound to affect her. You’re her son. And Tiff knows how you try to avoid the limelight, how especially hard it must have been for you, making an impassioned plea on national television. She could hardly not be moved by that. Isn’t that right, Phil?’
‘No, no, of course not, Mandy.’
‘If you ask me, I’m sure she’s just gone off somewhere for a few days to clear her head and get things in perspective. She won’t have given a second thought to who might be worrying about her at home. It just won’t have occurred to her. I remember even as a girl she could be a teensy bit selfish. One time, I wanted to borrow her yellow silk top to wear to a party...’
Adam interrupts. ‘Were there any calls? Anything from Detective Pūriri?’
‘No, love. Not yet.’ His aunt has the grace to look despondent.
Dad puts a hand on Adam’s shoulder. ‘Give it a chance, mate. Maybe after the evening news, eh? More people watch that.’
Shaking off Dad’s gesture, Adam grabs the remote. He flicks through the channels searching for the news updates.
‘Your dad’s right, Adam. I’m sure talking about it and making people aware is bound to jog their memories. Someone must have seen Tiff that night. People don’t just disappear into thin air.’
Adam rounds on her sharply. ‘Well, where is she, then?’
‘Adam!’
‘No, please, Phil, it’s fine. Honestly. It’s perfectly understandable. He’s had a very emotional day. We all have. Why don’t I pop through to the kitchen and make us a nice cup of tea?’
‘That’d be beaut. Thanks, Mandy.’ She bustles away and Dad looks relieved to get rid of her, even for a few minutes.
‘Just go easy on her aye, mate? She’s trying to help.’
‘I just wish she wouldn’t go on.’
‘It’s just her way of coping. She doesn’t mean anything by it.’
‘Yeah, I know, but still...’ Adam hunkers down on the couch, still channel surfing. After a moment, he catches his face on the screen. He stops and backs up. It’s the tail end. It’s odd seeing himself on television. Surreal. His lips look pinched and grey. Maybe he should’ve agreed to the lipstick after all.
‘Please, Mum, just come home...’
The picture switches to Mum’s photo: a snap Adam took one evening at the beach the year before last. It’s a close-up and she’s laughing, her eyes crinkled up, a carton of hot chips in one hand, wind whipping her hair behind her. You can’t see it in the photo, but only moments before, a cheeky seagull had swooped down and pinched a chip right out from her fingers. While the image fills the screen, there’s a voice-over:
‘Concern is mounting for housewife Tiffany Creighton, who was last seen four days ago in the quiet Ōtūmoetai suburb of Tauranga.’ The photo of Mum is dragged away to the bottom corner of the screen, now dominated by the blonde newsreader who pulls a tragic expression—as tragic as her Botox will allow—while she reads from the teleprompter:
‘Leaving on foot to buy a container of milk at her local dairy, the forty-year-old was wearing dark blue jeans, a white t-shirt and a bottle green polar fleece. Police are urging anyone with information concerning her whereabouts to please call the number listed at the bottom of your screen...’
I lie in the dark.
It’s quiet, except for the faint churn of the dishwasher downstairs, but I can’t sleep. When I was little, if I woke up from a bad dream, I’d hop into Mum’s side of the bed and snuggle into her.
‘Just a bad dream,’ she would murmur, half-asleep, wrapping an arm around me. ‘It’s not real. Go back to sleep.’
But this dream is real.
In the darkness, I reach out my mind to Mum, closing my eyes and sending my thoughts swirling into the universe like tendrils of smoke pouring into the farthest corners, searching for her. If I concentrate hard, I feel I can almost reach her. I can hear her breathe, smell the scent of her, feel the pulsing of her heart, the warmth of her skin. Intuitively, I know that breathing will break the connection, tenuous like a spider web weighed down after rain. I take a deep breath and hold it... holding... holding... holding us together for as long as I can so she knows I’m here and I’m thinking about her, missing her. My head pounds from the strain. I screw my eyes up, feel the tension between my eyebrows. Holding. My heart races. My cheeks scream. Chest bursting. Still, I hold on. Eventually, I can’t help it: I have to breathe.
I lose her in a whoosh.