Second Chances Part 42

'Doing well.' Dad looks pleased. 'She got up today. We went for a stroll in the garden. I think she's coming right.'

Exhausted, I lean back in my chair and shut my eyes. 'For now.'

The minutes tick by. m.u.f.fin is delighted by our night-owl hours. She comes rolling out of her basket and leans against me. I've gone back to worrying about Finn when Dad speaks again.

'When do you plan to tell Philip and Sacha that they're father and daughter?'

'Um . . .' I'm fl.u.s.tered by the question. 'I don't know. Sometimes I've thought it would help, maybe she'd stop fretting and fantasising about her father, but all h.e.l.l would break loose. Lou's a pretty emotional person.'

'But one day?'

'I hope so. When their children are grown up. It's like you said, Dad. There's so many people's happiness at stake.'

'Does Kit know?'

'Yes, Kit knows. I had a fit of conscience before our wedding. I swore him to secrecy.'

'I'm glad he's in the picture.' Dad looks shamefaced. 'I was a bit jealous when Kit first arrived on the scene.'

'You, jealous?' I can't imagine my father having such an ungenerous emotion.

He wags a finger. 'Not because of you; because of Sacha! I'd grown used to being the male figure in her life, and suddenly there was this funny, clever chap who seemed determined to be a father to her. And what's more, he was doing a pretty good job of it.'

I smile, remembering those early days. 'He was brave to take on Sacha.'

'He succeeded, though.' m.u.f.fin begins dribbling onto Dad's knee, and he manhandles her back into the basket. 'But all that matters now, tonight, is Finn. We'd both better get some shut-eye. How about an infusion of chamomile to help us sleep?'

I've been in bed ten minutes when Charlie appears, clutching Blue Blanket as he picks his way through the dark. I pull back the duvet and he clambers in. For the rest of the night I drift in and out of sleep, haunted by dreams of a soft-cheeked child with windblown curls, dragging his blanket, endlessly searching an alien landscape for a lost twin. I can hear his thin cries in the wilderness.

Horrible sounds shatter the weird desperation of my dream, vibrating and bellowing right next to my ear, sending my heartbeat way off the scale. I sit up with a yell, then realise my phone's receiving a text. The clock reads 5:25.

I turn on the light and reach for the phone. It takes me a few seconds to focus.

HES BACK!!!!! AWAKE AND TALKING.

I screech. I scream the place down. I kiss Charlie-who isn't quite awake, despite my hullabaloo-then fall out of bed and stumble onto the landing. Dad shoots out of the spare bedroom, cannoning into me.

'Good news or bad?' he gasps, clutching at my arm.

I show him the message, and he dances a jig before hurtling into Sacha's room. 'He's awake!' I hear him switching on her light. 'Beautiful girl, your brother is awake! Now up you get. I want you in the car in five minutes. You hear me?

As he speaks, another text arrives: Says get a move on and bring everyone.

Other people's sons win the interschool cross-country. Other people's sons have a reading age of thirteen. Other people's sons are All Blacks in the making.

My son is awake and talking. It's a b.l.o.o.d.y miracle.

I didn't know Charlie could run so fast. Never seen him do it before.

Dad, Sacha and I have been in a tearing hurry since we got Kit's message, but Charlie is in another league altogether. He rolls off my bed, slides down the banister and piles into the car in his pyjamas. All the way to hospital he's mouthing some secret conversation to himself, jiggling legs betraying his agitation.

My phone goes off in the car, and Dad reads out the text. 'It's Kit. He says: Asleep again, drugs still in system, doctors very happy though.'

'No!' poor Charlie shrieks in panic, and then begins to wail brokenheartedly. 'No! Don't let him go to sleep!'

Sitting next to him in the back seat, Sacha tries to soothe her brother. 'It's okay, buddy. He's not in a coma any more, just asleep.'

But Charlie doesn't believe her. He's inconsolable. I've barely parked before he's out, racing around the car in his pyjamas, ordering us all to come on come on, tugging at my hand as I lock the door and dragging me across the car park and into the building. Dad isn't as quick as he used to be. When we turn into the long corridor that leads to ICU Charlie drops my hand-he knows the way from here-and sprints for the finis.h.i.+ng line. He's a man with a mission, and nothing is going to get in his way. The door to the unit is locked but to my astonishment he presses the buzzer and bangs the flat of his hand on the gla.s.s of the door. Someone must take pity on him, because a moment later the door opens a crack and he disappears inside.

Sacha breaks into a trot. 'D'you mind?' she calls over her shoulder.

'Go!' Dad waves her away, and she's off at the starter's pistol. 'Go, go!'

Dad and I have to ring the buzzer too, and it's several minutes before we're allowed in and round the corner to Finn's cubicle. Hearing eager chatter, we slide in quietly. Sacha is perched on the bed, cradling Finn's hand. Charlie's bouncing around on Kit's knee, talking, talking, talking. Between the three, still tangled in a ma.s.s of wires and tubes, lies a drowsy child with a shaved head and a plaster cast on one arm. A knitted pirate nestles under his ear.

Kit catches my eye and smiles. He looks weary and tearful and euphoric, all at the same time. His arms are full of Charlie.

'Then Bleater jumped right over the fence,' squeaks Charlie, who seems ready to explode with joy, 'and then she was a very naughty girl because do you know what she did? She went and ate up all Mum's pot plants, yum! And then she did a wee on the verandah, and it made a luverley waterfall'- he waves his arms-'all the way down the steps, tinkle-tinkle-tinkle!'

Finn giggles quietly. He seems to think for a moment, and I hold my breath. Then he speaks-not loud, but clear: 'Bleater should've peed on the lemon tree.'

Charlie is laughing uproariously when he spots Dad and me. He jumps off Kit's lap, pointing. 'Mum, he's not dead!'

'h.e.l.lo, Finny.' I sit down on the bed, careful to avoid the wires.

The mutilated head swivels, and painfully bruised eyes regard me for several seconds. I have time to wonder whether he doesn't know who I am, whether he is terribly damaged after all. Then he holds out his good hand, reaching frantically as though trying to crawl into my arms. Finally he bursts into noisy tears.

The intensive care unit is a war zone, and the enemy is death itself. We later hear that at two o'clock that morning, a mother of three teenagers had succ.u.mbed to meningitis. But at five, a small boy began to wake.

Forty.

By the time Finn moves into the child health unit, he's heartily bored of hospital. He has no idea how he got there although he stubbornly pretends to remember the helicopter ride. The children's ward is much jollier than ICU: bright colours and toys, and a hundred times more relaxed. Various doctors explain that although the signs are good, Finn isn't out of the woods. He'll need monitoring and follow-ups, and further surgery for the metal plate to be removed. For now though, it's enough that he is with us at all.

The staff do a wonderful job, but they have us under surveillance like monkeys in a cage, constantly monitoring how we behave and how the children react to us. I feel as though our every gesture, every word is being observed. Stopping to ask a question at the nurses' desk one time, I actually spot some notes: Mum and Dad arrived 8 am with jigsaw puzzle. Greeted Finn appropriately. He seemed very pleased to see them.

How nice, I think caustically. What a very generous observation.

Kura has hung around, of course. She plays Ludo with Charlie while I try to look nonchalant. She gets him talking. Bless him, the little chap is flattered by all the attention and tells her in numbingly minute detail all about his new green gumboots with crocodile faces on the toes. The social worker also speaks to Sacha in a family room, which is a terrifying half hour for me. I underestimated my daughter's ability to lie charmingly, though. They emerge, chatting about homework. Perhaps to Kura, Sacha is just a typical post-adolescent, profoundly upset about her little brother. She has no way of knowing that this sallow-skinned girl is no more than a ghost of the real person. Sacha's back at school but we're taking no chances. We deliver and collect her ourselves, and while there she's constantly guarded by Bianka. I can't imagine ever trusting her again.

As for Finn, he's pampered and spoiled for a fortnight, holding court to a constant stream of visitors. The Colberts come, bearing their sons' comic books; Destiny arrives with Harvey, who fills his face with Finn's leftover rice pudding. Ira brings Charlie along after school. Even Tama ventures in and spends an afternoon playing Snakes and Ladders. The lean figure looks supremely out of place, crammed onto a child's chair and moving a red plastic counter around a board. I've rarely seen him indoors before, nor without the hat.

'Social worker paid me a visit,' he says laconically.

My stomach drops. 'Oh.'

He rolls the dice without looking up. 'She asked how come I came over that night, so I told her you phoned after the accident. I also let her know what a nice family you are.'

'Thank you.'

'Well.' He moves his counter around the board, and his dark eyes meet mine. 'It's all true. But I think you've still got a problem to solve. A big problem.'

'I know.'

'Two and three makes five,' exults Finn. 'High five! You're goin' down the long snake, Tama. You're slidin' all the way to the bottom. Wheee!'

One evening, two police officers from the child protection team visit Patupaiarehe. They are a man and a woman, hunting in pairs like coyotes. The sight of their uniforms at the door makes me feel faint. I try-and fail-to look blase. Following a policy of appeas.e.m.e.nt, Kit and I show them the boys' bedroom and then we all troop onto the balcony. The woman begins to take measurements and write them in her notebook.

'I couldn't see much,' I explain, for the zillionth time. 'It was dark. I'd left all the inside lights off so I could look at the stars. I was sitting way down there-see? Finn pottered to the rail-here-and then he was up and straight over. It happened in a flash.'

The man touches the handrail. 'They have to be built higher than this nowadays. It's in the building codes. Here.' He uses a tape measure to show us the new regulation height. 'This is where they need to be, see, as a minimum.'

Kit is pacing. He resents having to be polite to people who suspect us of trying to murder our child. 'Yes, we know.'

'A man's coming to fix cast-iron railings,' I explain. 'He's measured up. They'll actually be five centimetres higher than the regulations require. We've fitted deadlocks on all the French doors. Look-' I spread my arms, gazing from one officer to the other with innocent appeal-'it can't happen again.'

After two weeks, Kura comes to find us. Kit and I are deep in conversation with a junior doctor, but the social worker asks for a moment of our time. I see from her expression that she has something momentous to say.

We follow the swinging ponytail into a family room. I think we are both shaking.

'Take a seat,' says Kura, but we don't. We stand side by side, staring at her in terrified suspense. Kit takes my arm.

'Well, good news,' Kura announces. Her tone reminds me of the examiner telling me I'd pa.s.sed my driving test. 'The investigation is concluded. A multi-disciplinary meeting was held yesterday. Both CYF and the police are satisfied that Finn's accident was just that-an accident. There was extensive discussion, but the team concluded that no child protection issue has been identified, and no further investigation is indicated. So we're out of your hair.'

'Oh, thank G.o.d,' I breathe. The blood seems to rush into my head. I sit down, literally dizzy with relief.

'An apology would be nice,' says Kit icily. I try to shush him, and he lays his hand on my shoulder.

'Kit.' Kura blinks at him. 'I hope you can understand why we had concerns?'

'Not really.' Kit's charm has been switched off. 'In heaven's name, woman! Can you not say sorry? This has been a nightmare for our family. As though it wasn't enough to have our boy critically injured, we've been persecuted. Do you have the smallest idea how it feels to be called an abuser, Kura? Or don't you even care?'

'Of course I care.'

'She was doing her job, Kit,' I whisper, in the guilty knowledge that Kura was right to suspect something was amiss, right to investigate our family.

But Kit's in full flood, releasing all the nervous tension of the past fortnight. 'We've been spied on by everyone in this hospital-I reckon even the b.l.o.o.d.y cleaners were taking notes. Our neighbours and our doctor and our boys' teachers have been questioned, our name's been dragged right through the piggery. We've been living in terror that you might take our kids away! And now you have the bra.s.s neck to breeze in, all sweetness and light, and tell us we're in the clear. We've been innocent all along. Well, how about some acknowledgement that you made a disastrous error of judgement?'

'It wasn't personal,' insists Kura. 'If we don't act when there are indicators of abuse, we're vilified. And there were concerns. A child critically injured in the middle of the night, apparent finger bruises, a healed fracture that was never presented, parents who had a fight and then covered it up.'

'Only if you've a suspicious mind. I think maybe some of you people have been in this job too long. You see nastiness in every corner. You can't see the good any more.'

I'm ill at ease, but Kura isn't. She's heard it all before. She gives him a leaflet explaining the process we've just been through and what to do if we want to make a complaint. 'It's been a privilege to meet such a lovely family,' she says.

'You mean it's been a privilege to hara.s.s such a lovely family,' retorts Kit.

Kura merely smiles. 'How much longer can your father stay, Martha?'

'Only another week,' I say glumly.

'Grandpa will leave a hole in your life, won't he? But I know you've already made some good friends in the district. Really loyal friends, like Mr and Mrs Colbert and Finn's young teacher. Is there anything else you'd like to ask me at this stage? Now's your chance.'

We shake our heads. We want rid of her.

'Thank you,' I say.

At the door, she has a parting shot. 'You do need to get on with altering that balcony. And next time a child takes a nasty tumble off his bike, for goodness' sake get him to a doctor!'

Kit rolls his eyes at her departing back. 'If I ever see that woman again, it'll be too soon.'

I have to agree with him. The social worker hasn't made a disastrous error of judgement at all; quite the opposite. I genuinely like her as a person. I admire her acuity. No doubt colleagues respect, and grandchildren adore her. She's on the side of the angels, but all the same I never, ever want to see Kura Pohatu again.

Forty-one.

We bring Finn home. I present the nurses in child health and ICU with boxes of locally made chocolates, and Charlie hands out some crumpled thank-you cards he's been working on for days. Finn's favourite nurse is on duty and she sees us to the door with smiles and hugs and admonitions not to fall off any more balconies. His plaster-actually dark green fibregla.s.s- is smothered in graffiti. We pa.s.s the cafeteria and the chapel, and then Finn is out at last, free in the open air under a windblown sky.

Someone has written in the chapel book: On the a.s.sumption that you made him well, THANK YOU! But tell me-what now?

We drive up to Patupaiarehe in triumph. Dad comes trotting out of the kitchen door followed by Bianka, who's staying for the weekend.

'Here we are!' chants Kit, driving a little victory circuit under the walnut. 'The warrior returns.'

Finn talked all the way, but now he's looking pale and shaky. He fumbles to open the car door with his good hand. I think he's become inst.i.tutionalised. Actually, we all have. Dad helps him out.

'Lucky you didn't break the ear-stroking arm,' says Charlie, who's been high as a kite since six this morning. He's on fire with happiness at his twin's return. 'Hey, come and see Bleater Brown! She's this big, now!'

'Careful,' I warn. 'Finn's got to take it very slowly. He can't rush around.'

'Okay.' In extravagant slow motion, Charlie leads his other half over to the lamb's pen. They lean on the fence like two old farmers, tickling Bleater's head and discussing the progress of their stock.

Bianka comes close to me. 'Martha, um-'

'Just a sec.' I'm distracted, lifting bags out of the car. 'Can you grab this for me, Bianka?'