I said, “The deed isn’t in my name. It’s in Mum’s.”
Mum said, “No, it isn’t.”
“Well, yeh,” I said. “It is.”
“Gray.” I could hear her sigh all the way down the line. For a man who was only trying to be helpful, I had the most reluctant group of women around me that you could possibly imagine. At least the dog was grateful.
I said, “Of course it is, Mum. I wanted you to have a place that was yours even if something happened to me. Even down the road.”
“I don’t need a house,” she said, “and I certainly don’t need a house that flash. I was quite happy in my little flat, and I make a good wage and have my superannuation, thank you. And what about when you get married and have children of your own? Your wife may have something to say about that.”
“Well, what if I died before you?” I asked. “And I was married and had children?”
“If you die before me,” she said, “the house will be the least of my worries. And you’re going to marry some witch of a woman who’s going to sell the house out from under me, put her children’s Nana out on the street? Yeh, right.”
“You never know,” I said.
“Well, yeh,” Mum said. “You do know. I know. If you’re in danger of marrying a woman like that, I’ll be telling you about it, no worries. Put that house back in your own name, Grayson Loto Tamatoa. Do it now.”
I said, “We’ll talk about it later.” When she would have said more, I went on, “Lucky it is in your name, anyway, because it means Gilead can’t sniff out this house, and neither can anybody else at Mount Zion.”
“Because Tamatoa’s such a common name,” Daisy said. “And there won’t be, oh, an article or two in some newspaper somewhere, with your mum talking about how proud she is of you, and your photo right there to see. If he knew about that—how to do a title search—which he won’t, but somebody else might. If the Prophet knows, more like—they can find you. They can find us. I need to find us a new place. I need to find it now.”
“No,” I said. “You need to stay here. You’re working all night,” I went on when she would have argued. “Leaving the girls alone. He knows you’re a nurse. He can suss out that you work in Emergency. Sounded like he had enough clues. Just how long do you think it’ll take him to find you and follow you home from work?” And when she still would have argued, I added, “Or maybe it’s not you he’s looking for at all. How long will it take him—take them—to find Fruitful and Obedience?”
Obedience’s face had gone white. She’d forgotten about the tea and was just standing there, looking stricken. I said, “Sorry. I know you don’t feel safe, and neither does Fruitful. That’s why I want you here with me. And with Xena.”
“Who’s Xena?” Mum asked.
“The dog,” I said.
“Oh,” Mum said. “Well, that sounds lovely, darling. You keep them there, then. Keep them safe.”
Ringing-off imminent, I could tell. My mum wasn’t one for long, cozy phone chats. I said, “And I’d like you to come here for a week or so as well.”
She sighed. Of course she did. “How would I do that? Why would I do that? It’s not time for my holiday yet.”
“You’re leverage,” I said. “You’re the best leverage anybody could have. And, yes, I know you have a job. If you explain the situation, though, I imagine they’ll cooperate. You do most of your work on the phone anyway, right? Why can’t somebody else deputize for a week or two, and you can supervise from here?
“You don’t do housekeeping on the phone,” she said.
“Deputize,” I reminded her. “Also, it’ll be November. Rainy. No autumn colors, and no snow for skiing. Lambing season, too, and all the good tracks closed. You can’t tell me it’s a busy time in Wanaka, because I know it’s not. And you’ve worked for them for thirty-five years and never asked a thing. Ask them now. Please.”
“I don’t—” she began.
“Mum,” I said. “Please. I’ve got Daisy and Fruitful and Obedience here, keeping them safe. Daisy’s working nights and sleeping during the day, while I’m at work. The girls don’t know how to drive yet, and they don’t know their way around the … the world. You saw that. They’ll be starting school. Changes