GEMMA
“Excuse me miss? Are you all right?”
I barely hear the voice. I only clue in when someone touches my shoulder. I slowly raise my head and see a Department of Conservation officer staring at me quizzically. He appraises me and then folds his arms. “Do you need help?”
I do need help. I need all the help in the world.
The gray, stormy sea beckons me. I wish to be a dead soul, to have a soul, to slip through the roots and shed this world behind me.
I’ve broken Josh’s heart.
I’ve smashed my own.
The pieces are jagged and lodged deep in my chest. My heart needs a tourniquet. Every breath I take hurts. The pain is so physical, so real. It’s like when my father died and I was just this lost, wounded creature for days, weeks . . . years.
At the time, I only had my friend Robin, who later became my boyfriend. He was there before the accident and he was there after, but he never changed. I changed. I let the pain define who I was. I let pain ruin me, hold me down to the earth with an iron fist. I let pain scare me.
I thought burning my paintings would help. And it did. For a time. I wouldn’t let myself grieve for them, though, for the art. What was the point? Why should I let myself feel over and over again when I have the choice to not feel anything at all?
I never understood why anyone would choose to go out into the world without armor on, to feel all the stabs, punches, and stings of life. That’s not how I wanted to live. I wanted to be free from pain, from loss, from broken dreams.
Art was a dream—but it’s fine, I don’t want it anymore.
My father was everything to me—but it’s fine, I don’t grieve him anymore.
Life isn’t what I want it to be—but that’s fine, I don’t deserve a better one.
That’s everything I tell myself, just to keep going on each day. I’m good at stressing, testing, building my body, so I do that instead. Being a personal trainer is a good job. It’s fine. It’s okay. It’s good enough for me. With this armor, I can’t do much more than the things I’m already doing, things I don’t care that deeply about. I can’t involve myself with people other than the ones I don’t care deeply about.
It’s not living—I know that. But that’s the point. It’s not living.
It’s a wall.
And now I’m standing at Cape Reinga, long after the crowds have gone home, frozen to the bone, staring at the sea. My wall has come down. And I threw the bricks at Josh. To maim, to kill.
It worked. He’s gone.
He’s gone.
I burst into tears.
The D.O.C. officer doesn’t know what to do. “Miss?” he says, softer now, and that bit of pity, of empathy for someone like me, does me in.
I start bawling.
He awkwardly puts his hand on my shoulder. He’s probably frightened to death. But I don’t care. I don’t deserve comfort, but any amount will do. I lean into him and sob on his department-regulated uniform.
I never deserved him and he never deserved to be treated the way I treated him. But it was all the truth because he doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t belong with me. He called me a stone cold bitch and it hurt because it’s true. He needs to be with someone less selfish, more open, warmer, nicer, better.
He needs someone else.
But I need him. I need him to keep pushing me. To keep believing in me. I need him to make me better.
I need him.
I lift my head off the officer’s soaked chest and look around. It’s nearly dark. This is a wild, heavy place. The mist is thicker, faster, swallowing things whole. The wind is stabbing. It matches my mood, my bleeding heart. But I can’t stay up here. I can’t do this all over again.
“Sorry,” I mumble to the man, wiping my nose on the sleeve of my jacket.
He stares at me with kind eyes. “Are you going to be all right? It’s getting late, I’m about to close the car park.”
I shake my head, too tired to feel embarrassed. “I don’t know if I’ll be all right. But I’ll be on my way.”
I take the windblown path back to Mr. Orange, and as I sit in the driver’s seat I’m demolished by the emptiness inside. His stuff is gone. His sketchbook remains on the backseat where I put it.
I want to curl up inside my body to find warmth. I’m so cold.
Mr. Orange starts with a rough purr. The sound echoes across the empty bus, emphasizing how alone I am. I turn on the heaters full blast, and with a deep breath pull the bus out of the car park, the D.O.C. officer waving at me as I go.
I drive south, through desolate villages and past darkening trees. The night is coming and I want to escape. But there’s nowhere to go.
It’s late when I end up at my grandfather’s place. I wanted to make it to Auckland, but I knew I couldn’t bear to be alone in the house with my roommate out, probably working. My whānau is what I need. I pull Mr. Orange to a stop and sit for a few moments, the engine ticking down, sounding hollow.
Eventually the front door opens and I see Auntie Shelley coming out, a shawl wrapped around her and billowing in the breeze. It seems the clouds and wind have chased me down here.
She comes to the window, peering in at me. “What are you doing here?” She looks in the back. “Where’s Josh?”
I close my eyes and the tears start again. I’m afraid I’m compromised now, the wall destroyed, the damage too deep.
I feel everything. Every little horrible thing.
Auntie Shelley opens the door and I practically fall into her arms. She leads me into the warm house and sits me down on the couch. I can’t stop shivering so she wraps me in blankets and bustles off to the kitchen to make tea.