As far as I can see, I’m sitting on a beautiful beach. It wasn’t the white, fine sand of Auckland’s east coast beaches, but a mixture of coarse gray sand, shells, stones, and lots of driftwood. My surroundings come into focus and I start noticing things, like the twigs that poke into my buttocks accompanied by a cold, wet sensation. It must have rained earlier. I’m sitting on a strip of wet grass with my bare feet buried in the sand.
It’s late in the day. The sun is already hanging low in a picture-perfect blue sky. I’m waiting for my mind to settle so I can fill in the gaps. I take a deep breath and then another one. That’s better, much, much better. I remember overhearing Helen and having the urge to run away but suppressing it.
It’s obvious I changed my mind and ran away after all. I don’t think I’ve been here before. It’s a wild, rough beach and the ocean, whipped up by a stiff, forceful wind, gleams through a thin fringe of bushes.
Think. Think. Think.
I knock my forehead with my fists. I should be able to remember. What happened since the funeral? The funeral! Disjointed, hazy images of the funeral service are floating through my mind’s eye. What kind of a monster am I, not even remembering the funeral of my husband?
Instead of sitting on an unknown beach with a wet bottom, I should be at home, at Helen’s side and receiving the many well-wishers, expressing appropriate sentiments of grief and regret that everybody expects from a young widow. What made me do the unspeakable social faux-pas and take off? Filled with guilt, I’m bobbing like a cork on a current with no direction and no control. I must have been quite out of it. How long ago was that? What date is today?
Fragments of memory are coming back. I must have left Auckland, running away like a thief in the middle of the night. I’m waiting to hit the usual wall of shame, the one I hit when I’ve done something wrong in Horace’s or Helen’s eyes.
Like when they accused me of sneaking out of my room at night and eating the cake meant for the church’s cake stall the following day. Of course, I hadn’t. I swore every oath, but they called me a liar. Later I found a used plate with leftover cake crumbs on my bedside table.
They were right. I’m a liar. I can’t be trusted, and I can’t trust myself.
I pull the jacket around my shoulders, get up, and look around. A pair of discarded trainers sit neatly next to the tote bag with Horace’s vet clinic emblem. Sadness wells up in my eyes and echoes the lump in my throat. I’ll miss working with animals. Horace was always impressed with my vet-nursing. At least, he told me so. Whereas everyone deemed me a crazy failure—in a rage I think Helen called me a waste of space once—with animals I have a golden touch. I know what they need. It’s as if I speak their language, even though I never did any formal training.
I slip into my trainers, pick up my bag, and follow the road along the beach to where I hope the village center is. After the first hundred yards, my feet start rushing, as if they have a life of their own.
I know where I am, but I’m shocked and excited, all at the same time. Ahead of me, on top of a hill, stands the famous Port Somers lighthouse.
Yes, there is a story that goes with the lighthouse, but I don’t remember it. I’m sure it involves pirates, sunken ships, and hidden treasure. Why else would a child be excited by it? Because that’s how I know I lived here as a child. I’m glad I know where I am. Port Somers, in the South Island, 800 miles from Waitakere Flats. That’s a long way from home.
Home? Do I even know what that means? A cascade of bitter laughs escapes my mouth, followed by a wave of dread that makes me feel sick. I look around to see if anyone noticed my laughter. The last thing I need is someone taking me to a hospital because they think I’m crazy.
When you think you’re crazy, the number one rule in life is to make sure, whatever you do, don’t cause a stir. Don’t attract attention or you’ll find yourself in a barren room, with a doctor in a white coat behind a desk, asking you a battery of weird questions, which—by the way—you always have to answer with an empathic no. If not, they’ll throw every antipsychotic and anti-depressant pill at you the pharmaceutical industry ever cooked up.
I hate those pills. They are evil. On my word, they make me worse. My head goes funny as if I’m floating on a cloud of cotton wool, my bones turn liquid, and what used to be the annoying voices in my head turn into howling monsters or dark, bottomless snake pits with no hope of escape.
I thought I heard someone calling my name and turn in a circle. Nobody was even close to me. Is it starting again? The voices, the feeling I’m watched and followed? My heart thumps against my chest, fired up by my increased ragged breathing. My hands tremble as time trickles by. I can’t go to that crazy place again. I just can’t.
I grab the dilapidated bench standing forlorn on the beach side of the road. It might have once been a meeting place for people watching romantic sunsets or enjoying the amazing ocean view. For me, it’s a life buoy I’m holding on to.
After five minutes things are back to normal. I must have imagined hearing my name. It must have been the wind rustling the
