The Intentions Book Read online

  The room was quite silent.

  ‘That,’ said the teacher, ‘is the real miracle of creation. God gave us something to hold on to. He brought order. Form and matter. Direction to our energy.’

  Order, thought Morris. Direction to our energy.

  A few days later, when his Uncle Norman asked how his lessons were going, Morris didn’t say, ‘Fine thank you.’ He told him about the teacher with the black beard and how God brought order where previously there was only chaos.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Norman. ‘My. My.’

  ‘Yes, and once things were ordered, God could see what was missing. My teacher didn’t actually say so, but that’s how God knew what to create next, I think.’

  ‘Well I never,’ said Norman. ‘Aren’t you a clever boy?’

  Morris’s daughter is missing and he sits in his car outside his son’s house, daydreaming about long-dead teachers.

  Order, thinks Morris. Something for the mind to hold on to. You are in your car. You have driven to David’s house. The radio is on. You have allowed yourself to be distracted.

  He unbuckles his seatbelt, leaving the key turned so he can hear the radio till the last minute. The weather report comes on just as he’s about to remove the key. The car door is open. His body has shifted. He sits, neither inside nor out, uncomfortable.

  The whole country washes over him.

  David’s head sticks out through an upstairs window. ‘The front door’s open. Come in. I’ll be down in two minutes.’

  Morris stands in the entrance hall for a moment before heading left, to the lounge. He sits on the sofa with his hands in his lap, his watch face pointing towards him, and waits. It’s almost ten minutes before there’s a noise from above and footsteps coming down the stairs.

  David’s hair is standing up in front, giving him a surprised, frightened look. Morris half-rises from the sofa to greet him just as his son turns to close the door.

  Faced with David’s back, Morris looks down at his own hovering hands and wonders what he’d been intending to do with them.

  He catches himself on the arms of the sofa to stop from falling.

  David says, ‘You won’t fucking believe this,’ and Morris sinks into the sofa.

  David’s been on the phone to the police. The police have been on the phone to Search and Rescue. Search and Rescue have spoken to the park warden. The park warden said Rachel’s not due out yet.

  Not due out yet.

  ‘According to them she’s only due out at four. Four o’clock. So according to them she’s not even missing.’

  Rachel’s not missing and David is furious.

  He says, ‘Honestly, I could kill her. Why did she do that? Why the two different times?’

  ‘Two different times. I don’t understand.’

  David runs his hands through his hair, takes a deep breath. Is he counting to ten in his head before he speaks?

  ‘Okay Dad, so here’s the thing. Rachel told us—me and Debs—that she’d be finished her tramp around twelve. We made her promise to phone us when she got out. And we made her type out her plans—where she was going, when she’d be out, that sort of thing. We didn’t want her rushing off without anyone knowing where she was going.’

  ‘She would have …’

  Stop right there.

  Stop?

  You were going to tell David that she would have let someone know her plans anyway, even without him telling her to.

  I …

  Oh Morris, for crying out. Give the boy a bit of comfort. Let him think he did the right thing. For crying out, Morris.

  ‘What did you say, Dad?’

  ‘Nothing. It was good of you to get her to type that all out.’

  David’s face softens for a moment. ‘Thanks.’ He pauses, as if to recover both his train of thought and his anger. ‘We wouldn’t have even known she was going tramping, but Debs bumped into her at the gym and convinced her to come for dinner. That’s when she told us she was going and we made her type up her plans.’

  ‘Type up her plans.’

  ‘Yeah, where she was going and stuff. So anyway, she said she’d be out around twelve, so at about half past I tried calling her cell phone. It went straight to voicemail. I kept trying her, then I called the cops. And you. Debs also thought I should.’

  If David would pause again, Morris could tell him that he did the right thing when he called the police, but David keeps on speaking. ‘So the cops called Search and Rescue and they called the warden. So the warden checked the book they keep at the entrance to the park.’

  ‘The Intentions Book.’

  ‘And that said she’d be out at four. So, according to them, she’s not late until then.’

  ‘Four o’clock.’

  ‘Panic time. They call it panic time. Can you believe they call it panic time? They even put it in the Intentions Book. What is your panic time? Four—that’s what Rachel wrote. Her panic time is four. They reckon four is the correct time to be getting out of there anyway, ’cause the last day’s hike is quite long.’

  ‘Did you ask about the weather?’

  ‘The weather’s fine. It’s been fine for days. Of course I asked.’

  They look at each other for a moment then David says, ‘Bottom line, Dad. Bottom line is she’s not even late. She’s got us worrying for nothing. And now what do we do? Now we wait. And what are we waiting for? We’re waiting to start worrying. Man, I could kill her.’

  Panic time is more than two hours away. The last day’s hike is long. The weather’s fine. Rachel’s not even missing yet. There’s just been some confusion. The Tararuas aren’t that bad really.

  Morris can ignore the tightness in his throat. He can go home.

  He says, ‘Well, if there’s nothing to do, I guess I should—’

  ‘Nothing to do until three. The cop said we should call again round three to check in.’

  ‘Round three.’

  ‘Yeah, and Wendy’s on her way.’

  ‘Wendy.’

  ‘She knows about the later time but she said she’d come here anyway. To wait with us.’

  ‘Wendy.’

  ‘Yes, Wendy. I guess she’ll be here soon.’

  They both look at their watches.

  David says, ‘We can all wait together.’

  ‘Together.’

  ‘Yeah, but not my kids. Debs will take them to her mum.’

  Morris says, ‘Is it necessary, I mean Wendy coming and the children going? Is it all necessary?’

  ‘No, Dad, it’s not necessary. But here we are, in this situation. What are we going to do? Not bloody business as usual. We’ve got Rachel to thank for that.’ He gives a soft snort. ‘Look, Dad, I don’t mean to be harsh, but let’s face it, she really stuffed up this time.’

  David’s face starts to crease, like Sadie’s did when she was about to cry.

  Maybe he’s not angry. Maybe he’s confused.

  ‘David, I—’

  Then Debbie’s in the room. She’s holding a briefcase in one hand and Benjy in the other. She says, ‘Oh, hi Morris.’

  Morris wants to look at the baby, but Debbie hands him directly to David, who buries his face in the soft blueness and says, ‘Ben Bon a Bullabay.’

  ‘I thought you might want this,’ she says, and puts the briefcase on the floor. When she straightens she puts her hand on her back like an old lady. She gives Morris a weak smile. ‘What a mix-up.’

  She looks tired.

  Morris could get up and hug her, take the opportunity he’d missed with David, but the sofa is so damned low, Emma’s shouting for her mother, Debbie’s calling, ‘I’m coming sweetheart,’ and turning on her heel. Morris slumps back into the sofa just as Debbie turns back into the room.

  ‘Gosh, I nearly forgot Benjy. I guess I’d better take him with me.’

  Once more Morris tries to lift himself from the sofa and once more he’s thwarted by its soft sag. From over Debbie’s shoulder the baby peers accusingly.


  David gives a wave before bending down to open the briefcase. He finds the document he’s looking for, rests it on his knee, strokes it.

  ‘So, this is what Rachel left with us.’ He reads aloud—‘Due out at twelve p.m. on Tuesday fifteenth of August’—then puts the paper back on his lap. ‘She means twelve noon. Twelve noon.’

  Morris wants to take the paper. He wants to stroke it. He wants to hold it up to the light, to search between its words. He wants to study the words ‘twelve p.m.’. Did she press harder on the keys when typing them? Or did her fingers falter, uncertain?

  David says, ‘So she probably forgot she’d told us twelve. And left her cell phone off or forgot to charge it. She keeps her phone off half the time. It’s like she … like she … And we all know how forgetful she is. She left her phone and her purse here when she came for my party. She would have forgotten to come at all if Debbie hadn’t reminded her. She’s so forgetful.’

  Is Rachel forgetful? She’d seemed such a well-organised child, her room always tidy, her desk so ordered.

  Morris says, ‘D’you remember how she used to line her coloured pencils up along her desk?’

  David looks up from his papers. ‘Coloured pencils? No, I don’t remember. But it wouldn’t surprise me. She’s a big one for lining things up.’

  I know that, thinks Morris. Rachel was ordered as a child.

  ‘Tidy room. Messy mind,’ David says. ‘Don’t tell her I said that, but honestly, she can be so … so …’ He returns to his reading.

  ‘Um, David.’

  ‘Yes Dad.’

  ‘She doesn’t mean to forget things. She wouldn’t do this on purpose. I don’t think.’

  David’s face is creasing again.

  Now look what you’ve done.

  David has gone to help Debbie with the baby. He’s left Morris with Rachel’s typed sheet and a map printed from the internet.

  Morris turns the map face down. He doesn’t want to look at the Tararua Ranges. He hates the Tararuas. The Tararuas are his mulberries.

  The children were at primary school when Sadie bought the mulberries. She came rushing into the house, rustling shopping bags and jangling keys, calling, ‘Children, Morris, come quickly. Come and taste something. Quickly.’

  Groceries on the kitchen table and Sadie’s face bent over a bag.

  ‘Come, the taste of my childhood.’

  Then her face lifting, shining. She’s holding a small plastic container.

  ‘Right, you lot. Stand in front of me. Eyes closed. Mouths open. You too, Morris. Leave the milk. It can wait.’

  They lined up, closed their eyes, opened their mouths.

  Sadie said, ‘Behold. The taste of my childhood,’ and put something in each waiting mouth.

  Rachel swallowed her berry, then scowled and said, ‘Eeugh’.

  David spat his into his hand.

  Sadie said, ‘It’s not your fault,’ and left the room.

  Morris put away the shopping. A dollar fifty for a few berries that no one wanted to eat.

  Later, when it was just the two of them, Sadie said, ‘It wasn’t the price that upset me. It was the way they messed with my memories. I’d stopped missing those berries years ago. I’d forgotten about them. Until today. In the supermarket. There they were—jumping up at me, saying, ‘Remember remember.’ So I bloody remembered and then I craved them and now … now I hate them. I crave them and I hate them. How unfair is that? They should have jumped up saying, ‘I’ve been frozen and shipped halfway across the world. I’m bruised and battered and I taste bloody awful.’ That’s what they should have said. That’s what.’

  Her face started creasing. ‘It would have been better if they tasted nothing like the ones I remembered, but they were almost there. Close enough to mess up my memories for good.’

  And crying.

  Morris didn’t understand. Until she said, ‘Now I can’t be sure that my childhood mulberries were as nice as I remember them. It’s like they’ve made me doubt my happy memories.’

  He thought about how something could make you doubt your happy memories. He thought about the Wellington Tramping Club and the Tararuas. Maybe he had his own mulberries.

  Wendy is Sadie’s sister. Morris hasn’t seen her in weeks.

  She’s bent over the boot of her car, passing things behind her to David. He’s talking to her back, and when she straightens they move to hug each other, plastic bags, Tupperware containers and all.

  Morris watches from the front door.

  Wendy doesn’t look like Sadie. She’s shorter, even in her high heels, and her hair is dark. She’s really nothing like Sadie. And yet the sight of her, turning to face him, the sound of the car boot slamming behind her, the way she helps David carry her parcels. The parcels themselves.

  These things are paralysing.

  That’s Wendy coming from her car, Morris tells himself. It’s Wendy.

  But the light is behind her, blotting out her features, so that all he sees is a silhouette, a shadow wearing Sadie’s shawl.

  It’s only Wendy, his head instructs his limbs. But they won’t listen. They’re too deeply frozen.

  Suddenly Emma comes crashing past him, through the gap between his rigid body and the door, crying, ‘Bendy Wendy. They never told me you were coming.’

  Wendy picks Emma up and twirls round with her, and asks who is the greatest, grandest great-niece in the whole wide world?

  Morris just manages to remove himself from the doorway before the two of them stagger in together.

  Later, when Debbie has prised Emma from her aunt’s side, and they’ve all been through the complicated task of getting Emma and the baby strapped into the car and waved off to their nana, David sits opposite Wendy and tells her everything.

  She says it’s all some silly mistake. They’ll laugh about it later. Rachel got the times mixed up. She forgot to charge her phone. Everyone knows how forgetful she is.

  Wendy instructs David to stand up immediately and give her a hug.

  Oh for goodness sakes, Morris thinks, he’s not five years old any more.

  David stands and allows himself to fall into Wendy’s arms. She reaches up to smooth his hair. When he finally lets go, she says, ‘I’ll kill her when she gets home. I wonder—will I kill her first or hug her first?’

  David says, ‘You hug her. I’ll kill her.’ He smiles, but his eyes are shining and he leaves the room.

  Wendy says, ‘Come outside with me.’

  Even her voice can paralyse. Especially the voice. If you close your eyes you can imagine.

  ‘Come outside and keep me company while I have a cigarette.’

  But that line—that keep-me-company-while-I-have-a-cigarette—is Wendy’s line. Entirely.

  There was a time when Wendy used to smoke in the house. So did Sadie. If Sadie invited guests or the two sisters sat up talking, the smell of cigarette smoke would linger for days. Morris found it repulsive and dirty, though he occasionally smoked himself.

  He didn’t say anything, but Sadie must have guessed. One day she said, ‘How about we make this house smoke free? Shall we draw straws for who gets to tell Wendy?’

  Sadie told her sister and Wendy took it surprisingly well. ‘Outside it is. Now come and keep me company while I have a cigarette.’

  How many hours did Sadie spend outside keeping Wendy company? How many smoky conversations and slow secrets passed with the drags on cigarettes that Sadie, and later David, took on the deck? Even Rachel, who never smoked, did her time outside with Wendy, waving away the smoke and complaining that it was bad for them all, but still outside, still keeping company. Morris would watch them through the window and wonder what Rachel was telling Wendy. Would Wendy repeat it to Sadie? Would Sadie repeat it to him?

  Morris gave up smoking completely when the ashtrays moved outside. ‘No commitment,’ Sadie teased. ‘One hint of a cold wind and you give up altogether. Where’s your staying power, Morris Goldberg?’

  Sadie gave up or
pretended to give up more times than Morris can remember. He’d smell it on her after Wendy or certain friends had visited. ‘You don’t have to hide it from me,’ he once said. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘But that’s half the fun,’ was her reply.

  He started smoking again when she was in hospital the first time. He didn’t hide it from her but he didn’t tell her either.

  After she died, he stopped again. Completely.

  Wendy says, ‘Come keep me company.’

  ‘That shawl,’ Morris manages once they’re outside.

  ‘You recognise it. Of course you do. Sadie gave it to me not long before she died. She said she didn’t want it to end up at the Sallies.’

  Does Wendy know that Morris bought the shawl for Sadie? He’d gone on a business trip to Sydney, and with time to kill at the airport found himself gazing at a pile of neatly folded shawls.

  The shop assistant came and stood right up close to him. ‘Aren’t they pretty? They’re so soft. Merino. Feel it. Bury your hands in them.’

  Morris patted the top one.

  The woman said, ‘Where are you from? New Zealand. I hear it’s cold there. Are you married? Your wife will love this.’

  She’d wrapped it in tissue paper.

  Now Wendy runs her hands along the fabric. ‘I guess I shouldn’t have worn it. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Upset me? No, I don’t mind at all.’ It would be silly to mind. It was just a shawl.

  Once, watching people at a crowded bus stop, Morris had seen a man reach over and stroke a woman’s jacket. He was watching the couple as the bus pulled into the terminus. No—not watching exactly, rather gazing at them through the window in a tired, unfocused way. They were standing close but not touching. They might have been strangers, but as the bus pulled in the woman turned towards the man and said something. Then turned away.

  They didn’t touch before she walked away, her face towards her bag, looking, perhaps, for her ticket. But then, as she was about to merge with the queue, almost beyond reach, the man did it, raised his arm, lifted his hand and stroked the back of her jacket.