Wellington, two weeks earlier, and I am at work. It is Tuesday, the second day of the week, and still morning. The usual schedule lies ahead when the telephone rings, clamouring for my attention.
Mr Mahana, the operator says. Waituhi calling, Mrs Rīpeka Kingi on the line.
Tama? Are you there?
We haven’t talked for a long time, so my sister’s voice fills me with happiness and brings joy to the day. Memories of Waituhi, my home so far from Wellington, rise to eddy and swirl in my mind. I see the mountain at one end and the old fortress at the other, protecting the people in between. The river, the Waipāoa, runs through the valley. And Rongopai, our painted meeting house, holds up the sky.
Yeah right. My cuzzies would tell me to get real. They’d say we’re just a bump in the road or a bend in it. Blink and you miss us.
Mōrena, Sis, I answer, laughing to myself. How are things at home? Kei te aha koe?
I wait for Rīpeka to answer but the phone is silent. A cold wind begins to blow through my memories, the clouds are tossed across the sky. When my sister tries to speak again her words break like driftwood splinters.
Quickly I look away, out the window of the freight office with its view across the harbour. A moment ago, the sea was the colour of lustrous greenstone, calm too. Now the waves are rippling and becoming white-tipped.
What’s wrong, Rīpeka? Sis, what is it?
I immediately think of Mum. She’s been sick all winter. I told her she should see a doctor; how many times have I asked her to ring him?
Why doesn’t she ever listen?
Why is it that when you receive a call that could be news you don’t want to hear, you think of the one you love most?
The wind rises, the waves rippling colder and colder. Then Rīpeka’s voice lifts above the waves.
It’s not Mum, she says. It’s Dad. He died this morning, kua mate tō tātou pāpā.
Her voice is clear, I haven’t misheard her words. But the world has dimmed, the light darkening in the office. The rain comes sweeping across the sea.
Did she say Dad has died?
I avert my eyes and gaze at the harbour again, as if looking away will ward off her news. Is that a small wooden waka being pushed before the wind?
Take your words back, Rīpeka, take them back.
Come home, brother. Hoki mai ki te wā kāinga.