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When I wake up on a wobbly air mattress on the floor, I ask if there’s some way Gemma can drop me off in Napier so I can do some shopping. Both she and Amber have this sheepish look in their eyes and tell me that they have to go shopping, too. We’ve all totally dropped the ball this holiday.
It’s not long before we’re up and dressed and clamoring downstairs, just in time to see her mother has laid out a spread of breakfast delights on the table—French toast, bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, a pot of steaming coffee. Her uncle Jeremy and his kids are already digging in, so we sit down with them. I don’t mind—Gemma’s got a pretty awesome family.
I really like her uncle—he’s easygoing and says the most inappropriate things. His kids are really cute, too—you know, for kids. Gemma’s auntie Jolinda has yet to pinch my butt cheeks, but the week is young.
At first I wasn’t too sure about her mother. She reminded me of my own mom in that cool, standoffish way. But she’s actually not that bad. I can see how Gemma gets some of her traits from her, even if she didn’t get the pale skin and blond hair. There’s warmth inside of both of them; you just have to look for it from time to time.
With Gemma, I’m learning how to bring it out of her more and more. And the more I hear her laugh, the more I feel her, the more I want her. It’s a bit addictive.
Sitting at the table, passing juice and coffee, laughing and talking, I start to get that ache that Gemma talks about. But I know exactly what it is. I like it here. I like being with her, feeling like I’m a part of something with people who care about me. I mean, they don’t know me and I don’t know them, but you can feel the love around the table and it doesn’t seem to matter who it’s directed toward. I’m treated just as well as Gemma and Amber and it’s . . . nice.
At home, I don’t have this. Even when I was little, I didn’t have this. I had a mother and father who constantly argued—she was hard and impenetrable, he was having an affair with a woman who wasn’t. My sister, Mercy, was the perfect one, and Vera was the screwup, lashing out at the world. I was the youngest, watching it all unfold and feeling slightly removed, sometimes too young to really understand what was going on.
I understood now, though. And now I could see what I was missing.
This.
I feel Gemma’s hand on my knee, giving me a quick squeeze and bringing me back. Her eyes are asking me if I’m okay, and that ache is replaced with gratitude for her, for her concern, for her touch.
I only wish I could take her with me.
When breakfast is finished the three of us pile into Mr. Orange and head past vineyards and farms to the city. It’s ridiculous how pretty this place is. I don’t think I’ve seen an ugly part of New Zealand yet. I tell Gemma this.
She smiles at me. “Well, you haven’t seen Invercargill. Mick Jagger called it the asshole of the earth.”
I frown. “I bet New Zealand’s asshole still looks better than his.”
“Ugh,” Amber says from behind us. “I do not need the mental imagery, thank you very much.” She makes a disgusted sound and then suddenly adds, “Hey, guys. I’m going to miss this, you know.”
I turn in my seat and look at her. “Talking about Mick Jagger’s asshole?”
“No,” she says. “This. Us. Mr. Orange. Going places.”
As much as I’ve grown tired of being cooped up in this bus, I can’t really imagine a life in which I’m not exploring a country in him, seeking out new places and adventures each day. That will be another thing I wish I could take with me.
“You’re leaving on Boxing Day, right?” I ask.
She nods uncertainly. “Day after Christmas? Yeah. What’s Boxing Day for, anyway?”
“I don’t really know,” I tell her, “but it’s a holiday here and in Canada. Something about giving boxes instead of gifts?” I know that’s totally wrong, though.
“I’m going to miss you, too,” Gemma tells her sincerely, eyeing her in the mirror.
“Please play ‘Wish You Were Here’ ad nauseam after I leave and think of me,” Amber says. “That can be your Christmas gift to me.”
“Dude!” I exclaim. “I am never listening to Pink Floyd ever again after this.”
“But every time you hear it,” Gemma points out, “you’ll think of us.”
“True.” But the truth is, everything is going to make me think of her.
We drive through the city streets and have a tough time finding parking. I guess Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve is sort of asking for trouble. After stalking shoppers back to their cars and trying to steal their spots to no avail, Gemma says she’s going to drop us off and take Mr. Orange to an auto-glass shop to see if his window can get a quick replacement.
I offer to pay for it—I was serious when I first brought that up at the Routeburn shelter—but once again she waves me off. She tells us she’ll be back in a couple of hours and then she’s gone, puttering down the road.
Amber had asked me earlier if I wanted to go halfsies on a gift for Gemma’s family and said she’d take care of picking it out, which totally saves my ass. All I have to do is buy something for her and Gemma.
It’s not going to be easy. Amber and I split up and I stroll around Napier aimlessly. By noon it’s hot as fuck out. The town is actually pretty neat, with all these Art Deco buildings re-created from the thirties when an earthquake wiped them out, and it’s fringed with palm trees and blue surf. I want to ask Gemma about growing up here and wonder what she was like in high school, if she went to the beach to party with the other teens I spy there. Then I remember all her trophies and her comment about putting balls in her mouth and I laugh.
