Felicity snapped a picture of them together and promised to email it.
Erin stood back with her phone to snap photos of Pippa and the rest of the family. Hank snapped a photo of Erin with them.
“Could you take a video?” Erin asked.
“Of what?”
“Just start rolling.”
He touched the screen and Erin turned to her family, hugging them again. She told them and how grateful she was, and that she’d miss them.
Hamish said, “It’s been good. For all of us.”
Felicity said, “I’m so proud of you.”
Erin took three steps back and waved. Hank panned from Erin to her family.
“I love you!” Pippa yelled.
Hank touched the screen again. “Got it.”
After one final hug, Erin walked toward the scanners.
There’s a difference between knowing you’re loved and feeling loved. Erin’s little video would go a long way toward making Erin feel loved every time she watched.
She placed her bag on the belt and waited as security personnel escorted an elderly man in a wheelchair. Staring at her hands, Erin spun her grandmother’s ring and moved it toward her knuckle. She loved how her tattoo made her feel: strong, self-aware, and truly independent. At last, Erin felt she belonged to herself.
Actually, that feeling had always been within her; she just had to come to New Zealand to rediscover it.
And that feeling was hers, forever.
—LOGUE
Erin dove off the dock and swam underwater, the lake water a cold comb raking her hair. She propelled herself onto her canvas raft and relaxed her muscles.
Music danced across the water, so they’d be leaving in an hour. Erin rested her arm over her eyes and soaked in the warmth. Basking in sunlight, Erin imagined herself at nine.
Nine-year-olds had more freedom. Nine-year-olds had more fun.
She still needed to pack, but her luggage could wait. For now, Erin reveled in her own happiness.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Unlike Erin, I loved New Zealand years before we met. Before moving to Christchurch, I conducted heaps of research. I knew about the 2010/2011 earthquakes. I knew everything would be smaller, the pace would be slower, and my life would be different in myriad and unexpected ways. And it was. And it was fabulous. I would move back again in a heartbeat.
Also, Vogel’s bread is the best bread.
I’m sure I idealize and romanticize my life in New Zealand, and I’m fine with that.
There exist a few discrepancies between Erin’s Christchurch and actual Christchurch:
I created Ilam High, but Ilam Primary is real. It is the most wonderful school I’ve ever known. Ilam’s faculty and community welcomed us during our scant year in Christchurch, and I cannot thank them enough. I miss that community.
There are no direct flights from California to Christchurch, but Auckland airport wasn’t part of Erin’s story.
To the best of my knowledge and view from Google Earth, there are no docks on Lake Taharoa.
There is no cell service in the hills of Pohara. And many other places in New Zealand. It’s glorious.
The Roxx is now closed. Go climb outside.
To suit Erin’s calendar, I altered New Zealand’s tides, phases of the moon, and planets visible in the night sky.
Like Seattle, Christchurch is awash in rainbows. They weren’t part of Erin’s story, but have been a dazzling aspect of my own.
Stay strong, Chch; my heart beats with you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My favorite cartographer created the map of New Zealand featured here. Thank you, Karen Rank.
I, too, had a New Zealand relay team. Thank you Jill Wellman (who’s the perfect neighbor), Vienna Galagher (whose friendship surprised me), Donna Blakely (whose entire family is a joy), and Annie Horton (who anchored me). I miss you all.
Without other people performing their jobs spectacularly, I could not do this job I love. Thanks to everyone in my community, but especially Jennifer Anaya, Tessa Boutwell, Nancy Broaders, Tetiana Dunets, Nicole Frail, Natalie Jacqua, Andrea Somberg, Karlee Taylor, and Sylvie Taylor.
My critique group keeps me in line. Thank you Kristina Cerise, Elisabeth Fredrickson, Mary Jean Lord, Meg Pasquini, Peggy Sturdivant, Ruth Teichroeb, and Lauren Ziemski.
Though I learned the word sublime from my favorite sixth-grade teacher, I didn’t truly understand the concept for nearly twenty-five years. Darleen Carey, thank you for every invaluable lesson, especially the importance of editing with red pencil.
Early readers provided guidance. Thank you Katie Anthony, Alison Bazeley, Donna Blakely, Heather Booth, Anique Drouin, Gretchen O’Connell, Sarah Quigley, and Renita Stuart. And very special thanks to Kylie Jabjiniak, whose insight was crucial.
I’m grateful to finally have colleagues. Thank you, Cupcake Writers; you are lovely and amazing.
Without a timely writer’s residency at Chez Cerise, I could not have made deadline. Merci.
Elena, Katie, and Marisa. Namaste.
My family copes with irrational questions, irregular schedules, unruly piles of paper and books, and a frequently distracted Me. Thank you Charles, Charlotte, Eleanor, and Katherine; you’re the highs of my life.
