Where Sea Meets Sky

My grandfather is staring at me but I avoid his eyes. I could tell he liked Josh. He’s going to be mad at me for ruining things.

But he doesn’t say anything. No one has asked anything because everyone knows. I’m crying. Josh is gone. That’s the whole story.

When I start to warm up a bit, the hot tea coursing through my veins, Pops switches off the telly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. He’s neither inquisitive nor curious, just courteous.

My instincts tell me they wouldn’t understand, to keep it bottled up inside, rebuild the wall. This would be the first step, the first brick. But my instincts aren’t my own. They are of the person I told myself to be. They are conditioned reflexes. They don’t come from my heart.

I take in a long, shaky breath. I tell them everything, from our start in Vancouver (leaving out the sordid details, of course) to him appearing in Auckland, to traveling with him and Nick and Amber, to the way he got under my skin, to Christmastime, to finally painting at East Cape, to getting tattoos and jumping out of airplanes, to New Year’s Eve when he told me he loved me, and to the Cape Reinga, where he told me he would stay and I told him he should go.

It’s been a crazy seven weeks, and when I’m done speaking I’m utterly exhausted and feeling brittle to the bone. We had gone through so much and I had just thrown it on the fire.

The whole time Pops just listened. Only now he nods slowly, studying me, thinking. I fear what he’s going to say; I respect him so much that if he tells me I’m a terrible, irredeemable person, I will believe it.

“I think you were right in telling him to leave,” he says finally, and the sentence drops between us like a bomb.

My jaw comes unhinged. “What? I thought you liked him.”

“From what I saw of him, yes. I liked him very much. I think he’s very good for you. And I think you have been good for him. You have pushed his boundaries and made him brave. He would have never come here, seen all that he saw, if he hadn’t met you.”

“Then why do you think it’s good he left?”

A wisp of a smile traces his lips. “You were right in thinking you would hurt him. You would have. Not because you mean to. You’re a good girl, Gemma. You have a good heart. But it’s all you know how to do: push people away.”

I stare at the ground, knowing how right he is.

He continues, “He would have stayed here for you, just for you, and there would’ve been a lot of pressure from that. New relationships shouldn’t have that kind of weight on their shoulders. If you weren’t stable enough, open enough, selfless enough to shoulder that weight with him, you would crumble.”

“So we were doomed from the start,” I say wearily.

“No,” he says quickly. “You aren’t doomed. This is a blessing, for both of you. If he hadn’t left, you wouldn’t be here, opening up like you never have before. At least not to me. Sometimes you have to bulldoze something to the ground before you can rebuild. Do you know what I mean?”

I swallow. “I thought I did that back when . . . when . . .”

I don’t have to finish. He knows when he lost his son. “You didn’t, Gemma. That was not building. There was no rebirth from those ashes. You just stood in them for a very, very long time. You have to make a conscious choice to become better, do better. It’s scary, opening yourself up to be hurt, I know. But even if you don’t, you’ll hurt anyway. You’re hurting right now, aren’t you?” I meet his gaze. He only needs to look at me to see. “So you are,” he says gravely. “Then you know. You can’t escape everything in the end, so you might as well open yourself up to the good stuff along the way. You know, after your father passed away, I turned to the drink. I know you were busy dealing with your own stuff, as was your mother, and we didn’t see each other much. That was for the best. I was a mess. I did everything to numb the pain, and it worked. For a while. But then I missed things like Kam’s birth, your aunt and uncle renewing their vows, and I missed you. With Robbie’s help, he pulled me out of it, even though my boy was hurting, too. I vowed not to hide anymore. And sure, it hurts. Losing your son hurts. Losing your father hurts. But don’t let that pain color your whole life.” He sighs, thinking I’m not getting it. But I am.

I get up out of the pile of blankets and go to give him a hug. A big hug. I bury my head in his neck and let out a few tears. “I miss Dad,” I whisper before I break down again. He holds me tight and cries, too.

I break many times over the next few days. But each time, my whānau lifts me back up.

It’s January eighth when I bring myself out of my stupor. I feel worn down, naked, raw. But the sun is shining. The air is fresh. The world hurts but it’s beautiful, even with the pain.

I pick up Josh’s sketchbook and the pastels he left in the bus and start roaming over the peninsula around my grandfather’s place. I sit in three different places and draw, paint, smudge the landscapes. It’s so messy and imperfect, but life is messy and imperfect.

I put myself on the paper, bare for the world to see.

I paint and paint and paint.

“What are you going to do now?” my grandfather asks. He, Auntie Shelley, Uncle Robbie, Barker, and I are taking Mr. Orange to Paihia to catch the bus back to Auckland.

“I have ideas,” I say. I’m going back to my apartment, taking stock of my life, and then figuring out the next scary step. I’ll probably have to move back to my mother’s for a while to save money, to make money, but that doesn’t bother me. I need her at a time like this.