It was a luxurious journey. Shame I was in no mood to enjoy it. The stewardesses all had flashing Rudolph earings and tinsel in their hair, and they weren’t grumpy old trolls like the ones in cattle class. They served us turkey and champagne, and we had seats that lay almost flat, and fluffy blankets, and enough leg room to kick a cat.
For the first time in my life, though, I didn’t sleep on the flight. I tried to read a book but I never got beyond the first page. Mum was checking out. I hunched against the window, looking out at the sunset until one of the hosties bustled up and pulled down the shutter.
Then I gaped vacantly at the movies—all of them, even the cartoons. And when I closed my eyes Mum tiptoed into my room, smiling, a finger to her lips. She was hiding a puppy up her jumper. Just a tubby sausage with paws, really. We stroked the velvet ears, laughing softly together. And I loved her more than anyone in the world.
I had to change at Singapore, and spent two hours wandering restlessly among the glittering arcades of Changi Airport, watching shattered parents with crying toddlers, backpackers in frayed jeans, and flawless Singapore girls in long skirts. I felt like a ghost: unconnected, unreal, irrelevant.
She’d wait for me. I knew that. She wouldn’t go without seeing me. It was dawn as we crossed the Southern Alps. I could hear the cabin crew buzzing about in their little kitchen, making coffee and chatting above the rumble of our engines, and I pulled up the shutter to lean my face against the icy window.
New Zealand being just the right side of the International Date Line, I suppose I was one of the very first people in the world to see the sun come up on that Christmas morning. I was watching as it exploded into our darkness, pouring itself along the rim of the earth and making the scratched plastic of my window dance with rainbows.
We floated in slow motion above the crumpled mountains. Their peaks were made of shattered glass that glinted in the sunlight. I could almost see Mum standing alone on the snow in the frozen air, waving to me. She wasn’t scared any more. She was free.
I didn’t wave back, obviously. Well, all right, I did. Only very discreetly though, because they were bringing breakfast.
I fell into a weird kind of half doze as we crossed the Canterbury plains. I held her thin hand as she lay among the drips and tubes. I’m sorry, I told her. I’m sorry. I thought there was plenty of time. That’s why I never came back, even though you gave me everything you had to give, even though you were my world. But I thought about you, every single day.
When I surfaced, the Pacific was glittering all the way to the horizon, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. My ears had begun to pop, the seatbelt signs were on, and the crew were strapping themselves into their little seats at the front of the cabin.
We circled Christchurch, descending through the deep blue air in absolute silence. Even the engines seemed to have stopped. We were gliding down, and down, in a weightless trance.
Down, and down. In silence.
Abruptly, violently, I felt the wheels jar and grind onto New Zealand’s soil, and we were cumbersome and heavy again.
I felt pretty cumbersome myself as I slumped in the queue for immigration. I’d been awake for nearly forty hours, and I needed a shower and a shave and a toothbrush. I didn’t really care, though, because everything felt so unreal. I stood there behind the squalling babies and trendy backpackers, clutching my navy-blue New Zealand passport like a lost puppy. They were playing ‘White Christmas’ over the intercom.
A young woman in uniform came strolling up the line, stopping to speak to one or two of my fellow passengers, answering questions. She had springy red hair piled on top of her head, and freckles, and a smile that lit up the terminal. In fact, she was a model Kiwi girl. She halted beside me.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she remarked brightly, eyeing the passport in my hand. ‘Merry Christmas. Returning resident? New Zealand passport holder?’ It was odd to hear the accent again, with its flattened vowels. Matt would reckon she talked like me.
I had to think for a moment. ‘Er . . . yes. I suppose I am.’
Briskly, she pointed further along the echoing hall. ‘No need to queue, then. You can go straight through at number five.’
I must have looked as lost as I felt, because she touched my elbow to steer me across to the right booth, parking me gently behind the yellow line just as ‘Silent Night’ started up. She hovered briefly, casting an efficient eye over my crumpled clothes.
‘Have you come off the Singapore flight? Your baggage is already in the hall.’
‘Thank you,’ I mumbled, trying to sound normal.
‘You’re welcome.’ She gave me a small, professional nod and made to move away.
I looked at her. ‘I never asked for any of this, you know.’
She didn’t lose her poise. ‘I know you didn’t, sir,’ she replied calmly. ‘It’s a very long flight, that one. But never mind, you’ve made it back in time for Christmas.’
And then she smiled, right into my mind.
‘Welcome home,’ she said.
I didn’t cry. Obviously not.