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Chapter Thirteen
Henry
The next day, I arrive at my mother’s house at one o’clock. She said I could come at any time, but I know dinner will be around two, and an extra hour with my family is about all I can handle.
It’s nothing to do with my mum. Beth Rewi is fifty-five, with short graying hair and let’s be polite and say a curvaceous figure. She’s a nurse, working part-time at a hospice, and she’s practical, no-nonsense, but kind. She married Teariki Rewi only five years ago, after eleven years of being single. Outwardly, they act as if they’re celebrating their Golden Wedding Anniversary soon, bickering like an old married couple, but I’ve seen the way they look at each other when they think nobody’s watching, and there’s plenty of sizzle left on that barbecue, let me tell you.
The problem is my siblings, both of whom drive me insane. My sister, Liza, is twenty-five and with two children by different fathers. My brother, Philip, is thirty-two, with four children by different mothers. Both of them look ten years older than they are, and Philip has already lost most of his hair. Come to think of it, I’m actually a tiny bit relieved that I’m infertile.
They’re both here today, along with all their children, except Rangi, I discover a few minutes after arriving. Philip informs me he’ll be along soon, though.
The house is hot and noisy, the kids all tired from having risen at six a.m., hyperactive from having eaten way too much chocolate, and bored, even though they’ve brought most of their new toys with them.
I greet them all with big hugs, though, and after Mum insists she doesn’t need help in the kitchen, I join them in the garden to play Swingball and rugby, to push the smaller ones on the swings, and to hold my two-year-old niece’s hands while she jumps on the outdoor trampoline, her feet barely rising an inch.
Teariki is in charge of the hangi—the traditional Maori oven which consists of stones heated over a fire in a pit at the bottom of the backyard. Large wire baskets lined with foil containing all kinds of food have been cooking for hours, and he begins uncovering them and testing to make sure it’s all cooked properly before getting Philip to help him carry them over to the large table on the deck.
I’d offer to help, but I know from experience that Philip will say no, that he’s perfectly able to cope without my help, so I concentrate on keeping the kids amused.
Rangi arrives ten minutes before dinner is due to be served. In the process of tossing the rugby ball to another nephew, I glance over and see him leaning against the wall, watching me, and instantly I can see there’s something wrong.
I lob the ball to Nikau, then walk over to Rangi. “Hey bro.” I duck my head to catch his eye. “How’s it going?”
He studies the Queens of the Stone Age logo on my new T-shirt which James bought me for Christmas. His jaw is knotted. “She’s getting an abortion next week,” he announces.
I blow out a long breath. “Ah, man, I’m sorry.”
“She doesn’t want one. Her mum’s making her do it.”
“Dude, that sucks, but I can understand why. She’s only sixteen.”
“It’s fucking murder,” he yells.
“Jesus, keep your voice down.” I grab his arm and pull him away from the house. “It’s Christmas Day,” I snap. “Now is not the time.”
He wrenches his arm away, sullen and mutinous. “I don’t care.”
“Well, I do. Grandma has worked hard to make dinner today, and I don’t want you ruining it.”
His gaze meets mine then, and his eyes are filled with tears. “She wants the baby, and so do I. Why does she have to get rid of it?”
“Because you don’t know what you want at sixteen. Neither of you have any idea how this is going to impinge on your life. It’s what happens when you’re children—you have to let adults make the decisions for you.”
“I’m not a child. Did you think you were a child when you were at Greenfield?”
I don’t reply, because my answer would be no, and I’d have decked any adult who suggested it.
“Look,” I say quietly, “after dinner, why don’t we go for a walk and have a chat about it?”
He scuffs the floor with his shoe. “All right.”
“Good lad. Now come on, it’s Christmas Day. Baby in the manger and all that. It should be a day of celebration.”
“I made a baby,” Rangi says, “and he won’t get to be born. What would Jesus say about that?”
I’m beginning to regret getting up this morning. “Grab the fucking rugby ball and come and play with the kids with me.”
He does, albeit sullenly, and we toss the ball about until Mum yells that dinner’s ready.
