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But he shakes his head. “I can see it’s working. Maddie was always so anxious, and I’m sure Leia picked up on that. I wish she’d been calmer.”
“It’s easier for me. If you don’t like the way I care for Leia, you’ll tell me and I’ll either change what I’m doing, or we’ll part ways.”
“Jeez, please don’t leave.”
I chuckle, looking down at the baby. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here for as long as you need me.”
He doesn’t reply. I glance at him, but he’s looking out of the window at the gardens. He looks stern and sad, nothing like the joyful playboy who went down on me in the hotel room. His life has been turned upside down in less than a day. Is he wondering how his house would change if Leia were to stay here? Sticky handprints on the glass coffee table, chocolate fingers shoved in his PlayStation, his neat lawn littered with scooters and balls and a swing? LEGO pieces stuck in the plush pile of the spotless carpet? His dining table converted into a tent with blankets? I can’t see it, and I doubt he can either.
The sun is low in the sky, and the room is filled with an orange light. It’s so quiet here—you can’t hear traffic, or any people, or even lawnmowers or motorbikes in the distance.
It strikes me then how different his life is from mine. When my grandfather died, the house was full of people from the moment it happened until weeks afterward. Everyone flocked around, bringing food, giving hugs, eager to help out where they could. His body was in an open casket, and my whanau expressed their grief openly, not ashamed to show their sadness at his passing. People played their guitars and sang and cried together. Nobody was alone, and we all found comfort in each other.
James’s sister has died, and he’s here, in this house, alone apart from me and Leia. All these empty, lifeless rooms, achingly silent. He has so much money, but it can’t buy a loving family.
I know he has lots of friends. Alex, Tyson, and Henry will have offered help, and no doubt Juliette, Gaby, Damon and Belle, and lots of others have called or left messages. But a voice on the phone isn’t the same as physical touch. A hug is worth a thousand words.
I look back at Leia. Her sucking has slowed down. She’s drunk nearly the whole bottle. What a little sweetheart.
I remove the teat and put the bottle down, drape a muslin square over my shoulder, then get to my feet and lift her upright. Singing softly, I rock her from side to side as I rub her back.
“What’s that song?” James asks after a while. He hasn’t moved, and he’s sitting with his long legs stretched out, watching me.
“It’s called Wairua. Wairua is the spirit or the soul, and the song talks about the sun shining and letting the spirit carry you away. I’m telling her about her mama, aren’t I, piripoho?” It means babe-in-arms, as well as treasured or valued.
James inhales, and I can see the emotion sweep over him as his eyes shine, and he leans on the arm of the chair, resting his fingers on his lips. I look down at Leia and continue singing softly to her, turning away a little to let him deal with his grief.
“Sorry,” he says eventually, his voice husky. “I didn’t expect you to say that.”
I kiss Leia’s fuzzy head. “That’s okay, matua keke.” I smile at him. “It means uncle. Grief is nothing to apologize for.”
“You’re very open with your emotions, aren’t you?”
“I suppose,” I say with surprise. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Emotion isn’t welcome in my family,” he says with some bitterness.
“What’s your father like?” I ask curiously. “Is he like you?”
He doesn’t answer for a while. Eventually, he says, “I’m not used to talking about him, or my feelings.”
I continue to move with Leia, puzzling over that. “Sorry,” I say with some amusement. “We talk about everything in my family.”
After a while, he says, “I hope I’m not like him. He wasn’t a good father. I don’t remember him ever giving me a hug.” He looks embarrassed then, as if he thinks it’s weak to admit he wanted affection from his dad.
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just continue to rub Leia’s back. She gives a little burp, and I murmur, “Good girl.”
“Maori tangihanga last a while, don’t they?” he asks, so I guess he’s thinking about Maddie’s funeral.
I nod. “Often three days, sometimes longer.”
“I get the feeling you don’t think about death in the same way.”
“The dead play an important role in Maori traditions. We acknowledge them at all gatherings, with whaikorero—speeches, and waiata—songs. And everyone cries.” I smile. “You know the word whakapapa?”
“Genealogy?”
“That’s right.” I show him the tattoo that curves over my forearm. “That’s what this shows. The main lines are called manawa, which means heart. They represent your life, your life journey, and your time spent on Earth. The korus or curls coming off the manawa are new life and new beginnings. Each one shows the important people in your life journey: your mother, father, grandparents, siblings, children, and friends. It’s a reminder you can carry with you of the people you’ve loved.”
