Ammalie was startled by the word choice, the accent, and the food. “Oh, yes. Yes, I am. Just briefly.”
“First time?”
“Yes.”
“You have that look about you.” The woman winked at her playfully, and then said, “Eat your food, why don’t you,” and waited for Ammalie to take a bite.
Ammalie found herself wanting to talk, despite her plan not to engage with any other human. “This is delicious. Truly. Do I look like I’m filled with stunned awe? Because that’s how I feel. With a view of the sea while sitting outside. All the green.”
The woman tilted her head and seemed to really consider Ammalie, which made her want to disappear into herself. “That sounds right. Awe. And that green, I like to say it’s the color of a baby’s first cry.”
Ammalie felt her eyebrows shoot up. “Why, that’s lovely. So is your accent. If you don’t mind me saying so. It’s so…unique on the ears.”
“As is yours, mi-love. The weather, that’s what’s set to be lovely. Summer’s round the corner. The winds will calm. Summer is really such a jewel, a golden time. You’re staying around here?”
Ammalie tried to keep her smile going. “What a gorgeous place this is. How lucky you are, to live here.”
“Yeah. Too true, it’s sweet,” she said. “I thought you might be the artist-in-residence over at Nan’s place.”
Ammalie startled and said, “Oh!” but then clamped her lips shut. Surely silence was an answer?
“Ah, the last one didn’t want to talk about her art either!”
Ammalie heard herself making a random “Ohhh, wellllll” sound and fingered her greenstone necklace, and a silence stretched so long that it made Ammalie’s cheeks flush. She darted her eyes up to the dark eyes of the woman, who was looking at the necklace. “A gift from my husband,” she murmured.
“It’s a lovely piece. Oi! You’re the jewelry maker, right? Of course you are!”
“Oh, I…”
“Nan said there were three artists coming this summer. A potter, a writer, and a jewelry maker, and that the jeweler was first, that you specialize in…what was it? Jewelry from local clay? That you fire? I thought I saw someone coming out of Nan’s house this morning while I was taking my morning swim. Up above your house there’s a pure lake, you know. So pure you can drink the water from it. The lower streams are unsafe—runoff from septic tanks and algal blooms, you know—but not there. It was once my people’s land, and Nan knows that, and I have permission to walk on her property as I please.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Ammalie stammered. She had the bizarre notion that if she spoke in fragments, perhaps nothing would actually be conveyed. “How lovely. Yes. Well. I love hearing about clean water—that seems a rare commodity on earth these days. That used to not be true. Can you imagine? A time when you could drink from streams? It was a basic right. Clean water. That wasn’t so long ago. And it seems like the basics have been taken from us…and we’ve just gotten used to it. Yes. Well. I’m a bit…early…I…I’m hoping to actually experiment with…a new form. Glass…sea glass. It’s new to me. I came here to learn…”
“Oh! Are you fusing it? Or what does one do with sea glass?”
“Well…see…”
The pause went on so long that the woman kindly offered, “It’s okay. I understand. Art shouldn’t be talked about too much.” Ammalie figured that the woman’s mind was clicking away and she was coming to the conclusion that Ammalie was perhaps stunted in some way—particularly in oratory skills—and that, being a kind person, the woman was trying to help her answer her questions. “Well, I look forward to the class.”
“The class?”
“The class you’ll give. At the end of the residency. You know, to the community.”
“Oh, yes,” Ammalie said, desperately trying to pull herself together. What a mistake—all of this! What had she been thinking? “Of course, of course! Everything is so new. And I have a bit of jet lag still. More than a bit! I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I’m not making much sense, not being a good conversationalist. I’m just…” And then she added, “If you could not tell anyone I was here yet. I need a few days to…I just need to…You see, to be honest with you, I have a bit of a social anxiety problem…I have a flying anxiety problem, I hate flying, and then I also have a social anxiety problem, and I’m trying to be brave…”
The woman made a kind, tsking noise. “No problem, love. Thank you for sharing that with me. Plus, there is no one to tell yet! Not really. Just Judy, over at the library. But she’s visiting her son in Christchurch for the month. That’s why I’m closed on some days, doing double duty here and at the library. Don’t worry. I’ll leave you in peace. I know artists like their peace. And I know about anxiety!”
“Thank you. I…” Ammalie went ahead and blurted it out—wasn’t it better to confront danger than to run from it? “Look, I have a question. Please don’t be angry at it, I’m just asking. I don’t have a work visa, just the visitor visa, and I don’t want to do anything illegal, but New Zealand is more expensive than I thought it would be…and…you know, I’m an artist and all. I just didn’t budget enough…I just really didn’t! Things are quite pricey here. Twenty dollars for avocado toast—I saw that on your menu; that seems like so much! Although I’m sure it’s worth it! I’m wondering if I could wash dishes for my meal? I am a good dishwasher. Cleaner. I worked in a restaurant most of my life. I was a waitress and I liked it. I could jump in and do anything right now. If not, no worries. I’ll be fine. Of course. I have enough money for this meal, I do, but—”
Halting though she was, Ammalie knew she was making a good decision. A brilliant decision. A decision that would counteract her very bad one of coming to the restaurant in the first place! But better to be present than absent. Better to embrace the lie fully than to back off and seem more suspicious in that way. Sometimes it was easier to hide in plain sight. She’d stay one week and go. A gamble, but a worthy one.
The woman was startled by the question, but answered, “Sweet as, love. I often hire people over at the freedom camping spot for a job here or there. The exchange rate isn’t good for you.”
Ammalie just nodded, not knowing the specifics of that, and ate another fry.
“There’s always dishes. Actually, that helps me quite a lot. And the bathroom to clean. The meal for an hour. Each worth about twenty-five New Zealand dollars. Any day you want—a meal for an hour or so. But don’t tell Nan. I don’t think we’re supposed to hire the residents. Not that you could tell her anyway, I know she’s traveling now, and when she travels, she makes it clear she is unavailable.” Then she added, “I’m Aroha, by the way.”
“Oh, Aroha, it’s nice to meet you. Yes, let’s not tell anyone anything! I’m really grateful. I can be…shy…I came here hoping for some real, true peace. I need to sort some big things out.”
Aroha’s gaze was so warm and direct that it made Ammalie again wish to disappear, but then Aroha looked up at a man walking in and said, “Gotta go, love. Laters, ka kite.” Turning over her shoulder, she added, “It’s a jewel of a day. Cheers. Eat. Then dive in and do what you can. You’ll figure it out. Clean dishes are clean dishes, no matter where you are on earth. Tell any new customers I’m at the library and will be back when I’m back. I doubt there will be any, though, because that’s Richard, and after him, it’s usually no one. Leave when you’re done. Just close the door. The locals know that if I’m not here, I’m not here. Cash drawer is locked.”
Ammalie raised her eyebrows. My god, this was a small town, and an honest town, if you didn’t suspect anyone would steal one of the gorgeous-looking muffins in the glass display. She turned toward the fish-and-chips and took a deep breath in.
Oh god. God, god, god.
Somehow this had all just gotten complicated.
But the call of food was pure and simple. And eating outside! Birds all around, including the little sparrows who wanted scraps, and with the sea thrumming into shore, visible between the trees. She watched a big bird that looked like a parrot ripping bark from a tree—spectacular. The clouds hung low, a hazier blue than Colorado’s or Arizona’s, and she realized that for the first time in a long while, not only did her scalp not itch but her soul felt moist, and settled too. And now it was warm, and she was absurdly joyful, despite the very real current problem of being caught.
After finishing an astonishingly good meal and internally thanking all the creatures and elements that had helped provide it—including the fish and batter makers and lemon growers and sunlight and dirt that grew potatoes—she went to the kitchen and donned yellow gloves and cleaned. It was self-explanatory, as most cleaning was. Aroha was up front taking an order from a lithe young woman with a cascading ponytail, and then Aroha was gone, presumably to the library. Ammalie loved washing dishes—odd but true. It’s gonna be okay, it’s gonna be okay, she hummed to herself while she worked. Yes. It would all be a Very Grand Adventure.
—
At the library, which had a notice that said Open When Open and Closed When Not, she nabbed a paperback by Maurice Gee from the free shelf, and then slipped past Aroha and sat in the back corner. She logged onto a public-access computer and checked her email and sent a quick one to Mari, Powell, and Apricot, conveying that she was fine but would communicate this way for the next few weeks. She knew she could figure out WhatsApp or buy a SIM card or travel plan, but she was in New Zealand and wanted to be mindfully present during the limited time here in this green heaven.
She did turn on her phone, but only to look at her photos, seeking the ones she’d snapped of pages from the glass-jewelry-making book she’d seen in the Colorado cabin. Then she got up and browsed the shelves until she found the only book on wire wrapping specifically, and took photos of many of the pages, figuring it was easier to read photos than check the book out. She also had to remember, she told herself, that people could learn things just by doing.
Just try, she thought when she got home, and dug out the little baggie of green glass she’d picked up weeks ago. Just try. Not only a house, but a life, an identity. You’re an artist, an artist, an artist. So she sat outside at the round weathered picnic table and laid out the rough shards and some twine. This was all she had. It was not enough. But maybe art was about starting—and trusting.
