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I kneel down before her and cup her face. “Are you sure?”
She smiles. “I’m fine. It’s just… that was a first! Kind of blew me away.” Her gaze searches mine, her eyes filled with wonder, and then she lowers her lashes, slightly bashful.
She’s never had shower sex? I’m puzzled, but I don’t want to ask her about it. I don’t want discussion about Cam and what they used to do to become a part of our life. Maybe spur-of-the-moment sex like that put too much pressure on him, and he was unable to perform.
“Is there a comb in there?” she asks, gesturing at the box of complimentary items.
I extract one in a paper sheath and pass it to her, and she begins to comb the tangles from her hair while I dry myself. When I’m done, I tuck the towel around my waist and start running hot water into the hand basin. I splash some onto my face to open up the pores, smooth on some shaving foam, then take out my razor and begin to shave.
After a few scrapes, conscious she’s not said anything, I glance at her. She’s finished combing her hair, and she’s now watching me.
I rinse the razor. “You all right?”
She nods. “Just admiring the view.”
I smile and draw the razor up my neck again. “You like what you see?”
“Very much.” She gets up and walks to stand behind me, then draws her fingers up my arm. “I hadn’t realized you’d taken this all the way up.”
I look at the kirituhi—which literally means ‘skin art’—or the tattoo that curls up my arm to my shoulder. She traces a finger over the manawa or heart lines that represent my life journey, and the koru—the curled silver fern symbols—that represent my whakapapa—my genealogy. The she examines the other patterns—the pakati, like diamonds of a dog-skin cloak, which are representative of warriors, battles, courage, and strength; the unaunahi, which are fish scales that represent abundance and health; and the figure of the manaia, or spiritual guardian.
“It’s beautiful,” she says. She has a similar one, although it’s much smaller, and just on her forearm. She touches the largest koru at the top of mine. “Does this represent your father?”
I nod and continue shaving, moving up to my cheeks.
“Will you tell me about him?”
I wash the razor in the water. “What would you like to know?”
“What was his name?”
I shave carefully around my upper lip. “Edward.”
“West?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s where your connection to George Henry West comes from?”
“Yeah.” George—whose Maori name was Kai Te Rakiamoa—was the first pilot of Maori descent to join the Royal New Zealand Air Force in 1936.
“Do you mind talking about him?”
“Dad?”
She nods.
I rinse the razor again. “There’s not much to say.”
She slides her arms around my waist and kisses my shoulder. “I have a feeling that’s not true. I know he died in a boating accident, but I think there’s more to it than that. I’d like you to tell me the rest. But I understand if you’d rather not.”
I pause. Then I finish the last few strokes, empty the water, and rinse the sink as I think about how much to tell her. I turn and rest my butt on the unit and dab my face with the towel while she watches me.
As a rule, I’m a lone wolf. I don’t talk about stuff. Many Maori are close-knit, and they deal with problems together, but I’ve never been like that. As much as I love my family, I cope with my problems on my own; I always have.
But that was part of the issue with my relationship with Shaz. She said I was too closed off to her; that I didn’t talk to her enough. And I don’t want to start off my relationship with Juliette—if there is going to be one—the same way. It doesn’t come naturally, but I do want to talk to her more.
I take a deep breath and say, “If I tell you all of it, you have to promise me not to tell anyone else.”
