What Julie Lost And What She Found
“When the kettle was full she turned to the stove to boil it and it was in that moment that she had a feeling that something was not quite right. She had lived with a certain order for so long it was almost as if she didn’t need to look to know. She put the kettle down and turned around slowly. The window sill above the sink was almost bare, as if someone had swept up the stones that had sat there. Julie knew in that instant what it meant and she ran towards the door.” Lawyer and podcaster Steven Moe tells a story of loss and belonging.
By Steven Moe
Photo: Nathan Dumlao/Unsplash
Julie turned her face away from the water flooding the gutters of the street and looked in the window of the café. She contemplated the large blueberry muffin that she had seen when she paid for the coffee. It was the last one there. She saw someone enter and wondered if her chance had passed by. As she continued to look in the café her eyes suddenly refocussed from the inside of the café to the fogged up glass of the window and she saw her reflection. Immediately she thought of her Grandmother. Could it be that so many years had passed now and she had become so similar? She turned away and looked out at the street.
The hard rain had turned to a softer drizzle that was now descending from the low lying clouds as if it were an advance guard that was setting the scene for the clouds themselves to arrive. The people here were used to this and most didn’t even carry umbrellas. They moved quickly along the streets of Hokitika and darted between the dripping buildings as if they were children searching for a place to hide. Julie sat outside the café under a covering and watched them scurrying past. The coffee was nearly done and she was still not here. Given how well she knew her daughter that shouldn’t have surprised her but it did.
She watched the rain soak into everything almost like a blanket being draped over the land until nothing dry remained. Julie glanced into the café and again and caught another glimpse of her Grandmother. She still remembered clearly her time one summer when she was seven living with her Grandmother in her cabin by the stream. That had been so many decades ago and on a different continent, far across oceans on the other side of the world.
She remembered arriving and feeling shy of this woman who she did not know. But who else was there to take her? And so she had spent those months learning the ways of her Grandmother, who was 77 then, almost the same age that Julie was now. At the time of course, she hadn’t known her age. What was an age to a child - she only knew that some people were adults and others were children, and that was the way things were.
But she had inherited the papers later, the most intriguing ones written in Norwegian and smelling old and drenched with mystery. A friend of a friend helped with translation and so Julie had learned her Grandmother’s birth date and some scraps about her early life and when she had left Norway to move to a new life in America.
On the first day she was there her Grandmother had taken her down to the stream. It was small and you could easily wade or even jump across it in places but they tiptoed over the wooden plank that was a bridge and which would gently rise and fall under their weight. They sat on the other side beneath a grove of Alder trees and watched the water rippling by, catching the sunlight and throwing it back for all to see. It seemed amazing that they were the only two spectators of such a show and Julie had stared long at the water. It was all so different to the city and all that she had ever known. She became aware that her Grandmother was watching her and turned to those deep green eyes that sat in her wrinkled face. They each just looked at each other for a long time, perhaps communicating more than mere words could offer.
Her Grandmother sighed, and then said quietly, “Lie on your back, Julie”, as she dropped her shoulders to the ground and flung her arms wide on the grass.
Julie didn’t understand but followed her lead and then looked up and saw that the world was alive with butterflies above their heads. Then she realised that they were green and were the leaves of the Alder tree being wooed by the wind into performing a dance.
“What do you see”, asked her Grandmother.
“I see butterflies”, Julie replied. She closed her eyes and opened them again. She heard her Grandmother make a sound of approval. She felt a sense of peace there beside the stream that she had not known for a long time.
Every day during that summer at about the same time they would come out and lie down beside the stream. And every time Julie was surprised at how her spirit seemed to rise up as if to join the leaves fluttering above.
Julie looked again at her reflection in the window and her Grandmother was gone and she remained. Dressed in a dark green rain jacket, white hair drawn back in a simple ponytail. She turned to look up Weld Street again and that is when she saw her daughter’s car heading towards her. Julie stood up and went to the side of the road where she was parking. She was surprised to see that in the front seat sat her grandson, John. She hadn’t seen him for years. He didn’t move or look up, instead staring down at a screen on his lap. Her daughter was there then beside her, and giving her a hug. It seemed odd to be so close to someone after so many years. Why had it been so long? She wasn’t even sure anymore. Her daughter was here now, and she was grateful for that.
“Mum”, her daughter was saying. It was her voice that brought her back to that moment, to reality, letting go of the hug and the illusion conveyed that everything was fine. Her eyes really took in her daughter then – saw the red eyes, the dishevelled hair, the panic in her expression.
“Mum, I wasn’t entirely clear when we spoke on the phone. I mean, what I really need is. I, what I wanted to ask is, can you...” Her words tumbled out like this for a long time, in a disorganised way that reflected her state of mind. “…I need you to take him, just for a few days, until I can work this out.”
Julie hadn’t been listening but somehow it all seeped in, “you want me to take John? To my house?” Her daughter nodding. Beckoning to John to get out. Pulling a bag of clothes from the back and dropping it by them. Waving as she spun the car around and sped away.
John looked as bewildered by developments as Julie felt. There wasn’t much to say. She picked up the bag and turned towards her car and he followed like someone would follow a nurse in a hospital leading them to the operating room.
He had been to her cabin when he was a baby, or maybe 1 year old. He wouldn’t remember it.
She found it hard to speak as she drove through the rain up the Arahura Valley, further and further away from the city and people. It was a miracle that she even had a phone line, when you thought about it. She slipped along the muddy road following the black line through the thick trees and bush until she reached her home. It was a small wooden house, painted an off-yellow colour that had faded in the sun and harsh winters. The dark red brick chimney that stuck from the top showed the fire had gone out long ago. Down the road a short walk was the Arahura River but she was safe from flooding this far away from it, nestled up in the curves of the hills that rippled through the entire valley. What must John think of this? She turned the key in the truck off and looked over at him. He was looking at the screen again.
***
That first night with her Grandmother Julie had cried. It was all so new. So far from the city and the sounds that she knew. The house was small, or maybe her Grandmother was listening outside the door. Either way, she came in and sat with her in the dark.
After about 10 minutes her Grandmother stood up. “Put on your clothes, we are going for a walk”, she said. This surprised Julie, but she was learning that her Grandmother would often surprise her. When they stepped out and began to walk up the path the night closed in around them and the darkness felt like it was something that could be reached out for and touched, like a curtain. Her Grandmother was humming a song, a Norwegian one, Julie could tell. She looked up at her and it was then that she saw the stars above. The city lights always dimmed them but out here they could be seen so clearly, as if there were a million little fires across the sky. She paused and her Grandmother looked down at her.
“Ah yes, the stars”, she said with her accent. She knelt down beside Julie. “Do you see them all, unchanging? They remind me that there is more to this life than living or dying, for we are each here for a reason.” Her Grandmother stopped abruptly, as if she had more to say but wanted to wait, or didn’t know the right words to convey the meaning. Julie could feel her eyes getting hot and the tears on her cheek. There was nothing more to be done. Nothing more that she could have done. They walked on through the night until they reached a spot in the stream which grew wider. The sound of the rapids died away completely and it looked almost like a small lake before them.
“The beavers are here this year”, said her Grandmother. They both looked intently into the night but could only see a low mound some distance away which was the dam that the beavers had created. In the dark it almost looked like a very small wave that didn’t get any closer.
Her Grandmother went down to the edge and picked up a small, flat stone. She turned and looked back at Julie and raised it twice in the air, as if they were part of a team and she was starting the play. Then she turned and faced the water and threw the stone, lightly, out into the darkness. Julie heard it hit the water, then heard it again. It had skimmed on the water twice before sinking.
“In Kragero, my grandfather taught me this one, long ago.” Her Grandmother said. Julie liked listening to her Grandmother speak, both for her accent and her unique choice of words. Anything she said sounded more like a song than a statement. She watched her pick up another stone, and saw her beckon Julie to her. It was strange to stand there in the dark, tossing stones into the water with her Grandmother. Julie found it very difficult to skim them on the top and had no success. They just plopped into the water with a small splash. To be honest, her Grandmother seemed to find it hard as well. Julie would only appreciate much later what skill this took to do at her Grandmother’s age. They came back the next day as well but during the day this time. The beavers were again discreet and made no appearance. But Julie gradually began to learn about the stones and how to get them to hit the water and bounce up again. The key was their shape. It was the roundest and flattest ones which were the best for they would sail like little Frisbees through the air.
When she later looked back on her life she realised that it was collecting rocks and stones to throw like that which marked her beginnings as a rock hunter. She found some that she didn’t want to throw into the water, and she brought them home instead. Soon she was noticing rocks everywhere that she went. There was an entire field of rock up behind the house. It stretched out in front of her and she learned that it was granite and no trees grew from it. She broke a piece off by jumping on an edge that poked out, and brought it home. She liked the different colours, the shapes, the patterns, the textures. The way that some would dissolve in water and let her finger off reds or yellows as if they were paint. Stones and rocks began to fill her dreams as well as her waking hours. Soon the front porch was littered with rocks that had been gathered – smooth pebbles from the stream, large round rocks that looked like melons, sharp obsidian that was black and yet translucent in places. That was hard to find but she enjoyed the challenge. Her Grandmother encouraged her in this and together they found a book at the small library in the town which described the rocks. She began to learn words like bedrock, outcrop, sandstone, shale and basalt. She had no idea that what had been started in those days would set a course she would follow the rest of her life.
***
Looking at it now, Julie realised that her house in the Arahura Valley was a distant echo of that home of her Grandmothers. She had boulders that lined the driveway and there were rocks around the house in uneven stacks, like small volcanos erupting. They had emigrated here so many years ago - could it really be 50 years? It must be as she had been 25 when they left California to come and explore for Pounamu – the greenstone of the South Island of New Zealand. She had read an article and seen some photos. They had finished their degrees – both studying geology at the same University. Getting married the week after they graduated. Life was there to be tasted and eaten. “Wouldn’t it be a great experience to visit New Zealand”? Which one of them had said it? She couldn’t recall but it didn’t matter – the other one had agreed right away.
It was an adventure and they had been young. They stayed a few weeks, which became months. Settling into a life here had been easy. They lived an entire decade together in that house, and had their daughter there too. He had been an expert at finding the some of the most difficult greenstone to source, which only could be found down south in Milford Sound. It was a skill which few possessed and the money he made from those finds paid their expenses, which were pretty minimal in that small house. They were happy.
She still recalled the moment of that kiss she gave him as he left for the trip down again to Milford Sound to look for more. When the news came back that he was lost she didn’t believe it and assumed he would just appear soon, so she cooked as if he would be there that night. In the end there was nothing to do but to pick up her baby daughter and continue on with this life. The Pounamu provided her some income. It was hard to find but like her husband she also seemed to have a sense of where it would be on the river bed or in the hills. These days she only took it from the beaches where she was allowed to collect. They looked just like normal rocks or boulders and it was often only by cutting them open that the beauty of the green stone inside was revealed.
The tourists who visited the West Coast bought sculpted pieces as a reminder of their trips but they didn’t really understand. What they purchased would mainly end up in drawers, stowed away and hidden from sight. She recalled the first time she had taken a large stone in and visited one of the Maori artists who sculpted them into different shapes. It was a hot day and she stepped into the cool shade of his studio, feeling conscious of her accent that immediately gave a first impression and flooded the room with unspoken assumptions. But fortunately he didn’t seem worried about her past or where she was from. In fact, he seemed very grateful for the stone she had brought in, for it would provide a good source for the necklaces, earrings and other crafts he created. That had been the start.
Of course, she had to learn a lot. She discovered that her favourite pounamu was not the nephrite jade that was so common but instead the bowenite that was called “Tangiwai”. It was clear, like glass and only found down near the place her husband had disappeared searching for it. One year, the year after he disappeared, she had gone there with her young daughter and spent a summer searching for Tangiwai – or was she really searching for him? It was the most ancient of pounamu and took its name from tangi (“to cry”), and wai (”water” or “tears”). The Maori she met in Milford Sound told her the full name was Koko-tangiwai, which referred to a deep sorrow that is never completely healed. “It is a tear water stone”, she was told. She could relate to that. She only found a few of them, despite deploying all her skills and neglecting her daughter for hours on end to hunt for more. One hung around her neck even now – it had never been sculpted but if you held it up to the light you could see the clear shade of green shining inside and through it, as if it were alive. It reminded her of her Grandmother’s eyes which had been almost the same colour.
***
One day towards the end of their summer together her Grandmother put something on the low wooden table where she sat eating porridge with raisins in it. The object was wrapped in paper.
“I will not be able to give you this, for your birthday, when you go back”, she said simply.
Julie looked at her, then unwrapped the paper. It was a napkin which was a light shade of blue. No tape, just folded over to conceal what was inside. She felt the stone before she saw it. It slipped coolly into her hand and she looked down at it. It looked like it was perfectly round and flat, like a small wheel. She turned it over and noticed the white line that criss-crossed it. One line was slightly longer than the other which made it form the shape of a cross.
She spoke gently and slowly, and Julie still remembered those words clearly, “This is from Kragero. From my grandfather – it is a memory. You can see, it is eternity breaking through and speaking through the very rocks themselves.” Julie took it up to her room and put it beside her bed. It felt different from the rocks she had been finding – this one had a story and had been a gift to her. She touched it again and ran her fingers over the lines.
The next day Julie’s eye started noticing how rocks sometimes had patterns or shapes in them. But she couldn’t find any by the side of the stream that had such a distinctive cross with two white lines going through them like a lower case ‘t’. This would be a challenge. Perhaps it was that combination or rarity and challenge that really started her on the rock collecting path. If it had been easier then what would have been the point? Over the years to come she was always looking out for rocks by the sea, rivers, streams, parks. And if she found one like that her Grandmother first gave her, then it would inevitably find a place at her home.
***
Julie got out of the car and grabbed John’s bag. They went into the house together and he sat down in the lounge. There wouldn’t have been a long tour of her house as it was so small but it would have been nice to show him around. Instead, the screen had his attention so she simply pointed to the toilet so he would know where that was. She went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The rain had died away and a few rays of sun lit up the window sill above the sink. She turned to fill the kettle and looked out at the trees and the drops which still clung to their leaves. The tree ferns in particular were weighed down by the water as if they were travellers carrying packs on a hike. As the water filled the kettle she looked at the window sill itself and saw the cross rock that her Grandmother had given her so long ago. It was now surrounded by many others from different rivers and streams, but none of them compared to the original. She reached out and picked it up and turned it over in her hand like she had done so many years ago, then she placed it back in position and turned to the boiling kettle.
When her husband had been alive drinking tea together had been a big part of the day. A chance to sit together and break out of the cleaning or reading or work they had been doing. These days it was a way to mark time, to have a break in the day and make sure all the hours were accounted for. She drank from the same cup with its chipped edges and stained insides which said “Sonora”. Just seeing the name reminded her of her Grandmother who had lived there so long. Drinking tea was familiar, a routine that she savoured and gave her comfort, like when she was a child and was asked to go and buy the bread fresh from the bakery. A smell of fresh bread still drew her back to that little shop and handing over the coins for a loaf of white bread which was still hot. The butter melting into a thick slice was the only addition it ever needed.
When her tea was done she thought about her next problem. She only had one bed. She hadn’t expected to have a small boy coming to stay with her when she set out that morning. Her daughter’s message had simply been that she wanted to drop by and see her. Not at her house, but in Hokitika. So when she drove into town there had been no planning on driving back with another person beside her. She decided that the couch would have to do and set about finding some sheets and a blanket. It wasn’t cold so it would be fine for him to sleep out there.
He was still buried in the screen while she cooked a simple meal for dinner. After they had eaten she said, “Let’s go for a walk”. He reluctantly put the screen down and they put on their rain jackets, just in case, and walked down towards the river.
“How are you feeling, John”, she asked, as they walked.
“I don’t know”.
“How are things at home?”
A pause. “Fine”.
“And school?”
“School is fine.”
She was struggling for topics. “How old are you now?”
“I’m 9.”
She wasn’t sure what else to say. So they walked on in silence until they reached the great Arahura River. It was much higher than normal because of the rain. Julie walked to the edge and subconsciously her eyes searched the rocks there on the bank. Julie couldn’t even stop herself anymore, it was just a natural reaction. This part of the river right in front was deep and slow moving. She saw a small cross rock and slipped it into her pocket. She glanced over at John. He seemed to be staring without looking at what was in front of them.
Julie had a thought then, and went to the edge. She spent some time searching and found a stone – a little too thick to work well but it was pretty flat. She turned to John. He had moved away, back up towards the road, and sat on a log.
“Your great, great Grandmother taught me this,” she called out loudly. She wasn’t sure he had heard her above the sound of the river. Suddenly she felt silly. She raised the rock twice in the air. There was nothing else to be done now – she was committed. She turned to the water and threw it as skilfully as she could. It hit the water once and then bounced high and splashed down before it sank out of sight. She turned back towards John and smiled at him.
His hands were in his pockets. “Can we go back inside?”, he called out.
She turned her back to the river and walked with him to the house.
***
The next morning they were having breakfast when his screen went black. He looked up from it, confused. They were eating toast and the steam wafted up from her cup of tea. They both looked through his bag of clothes but there were no cords there.
“Do you have a charger?” he asked. He moved close to her as he said this and spoke softly, as if it would help the answer to be yes. She didn’t like the screen, but she wished she could have helped him. That would have taken a true miracle. The most modern piece of equipment in her house was the old phone in the corner. You had to dial it using a circle which had numbers around the edge and it click clacked as it swung round back into position. She had no charger.
She shook her head. As she did this he turned his head into the sunlight, disappointed. She looked into his face then and saw much more than just a reaction to not having a charger. She reached out to him and tried to give him a hug but he pulled away.
“I didn’t want this. I just want …”, he slowed, as if to reveal himself in this way was a betrayal. There were tears and more there. It was thinking about that when Julie realised that his eyes were a deep green colour. She didn’t understand how it could have escaped her before now but she realised now that this boy right here stood as a living link to her own past, to her own childhood, to her own Grandmother. It had been too long to be away, to be apart from her daughter and from him. She knew that with a sudden clarity. But now he had taken the screen in his hands and sat curled in the sofa, as if his desire itself might will the screen to life again.
***
The morning passed quickly. They did not speak. After a lunch of soup and bread Julie went outside to the stack of wood lining the wall at the side of the house. John moved back to his place on the sofa. The fire had been used a lot recently because it cheered Julie up to have the flames at night when it was raining, even if it wasn’t very cold. She spent time stacking more wood into place, fitting them together like pieces of Lego.
When she came into the house she noticed that John wasn’t there. She looked around and saw his bag of clothes and the screen on the sofa but the jacket was not hanging on the door. She looked out the front window and saw him down beside the river. He would be safe enough there. She went to fill up her kettle and decided she would take her cup of tea down with her and see what he was doing. The trees and ferns had all dried out compared to the previous afternoon. Small birds now fluttered noisily among the branches in the sun.
When the kettle was full she turned to the stove to boil it and it was in that moment that she had a feeling that something was not quite right. She had lived with a certain order for so long it was almost as if she didn’t need to look to know. She put the kettle down and turned around slowly. The window sill above the sink was almost bare, as if someone had swept up the stones that had sat there. Julie knew in that instant what it meant and she ran towards the door.
She moved as quickly as she could down the road and she saw he was still there, standing at the edge. She called his name. She was running. Then she reached him and held his shoulders, while her eyes moved down to his feet. A grocery bag, one of the cheap plastic ones she kept under the sink. He looked up at her face and down at the bag. She was on her knees then, quickly clambering, clawing desperately through the stones and not finding what she was after. She sat back heavily and felt her eyes closing and a great weight pressing her down.
Then she heard his voice. It was as if it was calling her back across ages, into this moment, now. He was saying, “I can not make them skip like you, Grandmother. But, I am trying.”
She opened her eyes. She saw the river. She saw stones. She saw sky. She looked up at him.
Something had broken, snapped in her, like a flood breaking over the banks of a river. She looked back at the river and the rocks along the bank. She breathed in deeply and started to stand. She felt him try to help, a small little arm under hers, pulling up.
Julie was standing. She looked around her and took another long, deep breath. Then she looked down at the bag. She turned her face towards John. She smiled then, and said slowly, “Pass me the very flattest one you can find, and you take one as well”. He bent down and searched through the bag, then handed her one of the stones. He held another in his hand.
She raised her stone to him twice and then she turned to face the water.
Photo: Arun Clarke/Unsplash