Cleo

Winter was under way again. Lashings of rain iced southerly gales as they roared through Cook Strait to harass the city. Umbrellas exploded on street corners. Old women clung to lampposts. As citizens struggled up hills to their homes, not a single one could be accused of having a good hair day. When the wind finally exhausted itself, the hills wrapped themselves in petticoats of cloud and sulked. The city closed in on itself. And still it rained.

Wellingtonians seldom mentioned these minor irritations. Their reward for living on a series of climactically challenged cliffs staring straight into the jaws of the frozen continent was the knowledge that they inhabited the nation’s capital, and were therefore (there was no way to put it tactfully) important. They certainly were a cut above those rough Aucklanders, dreary Christchurch people and (heaven forbid) country bumpkins from the provinces. If the weather made day-to-day survival tough, the capital’s inner life was furnished with book clubs, night classes and more theaters per head of population than any other city. A cultured lot, they were.

“You must’ve brought the weather with you,” they’d say in accusatory tones to drenched and shivering visitors from out of town. “If only you’d arrived yesterday. We’ve just had two weeks of glorious sunshine.”

But after the tenth consecutive day of rain and wind, Wellington could do something extraordinary. Shaking off its grey cloak, the city would suddenly emerge in crisp primary colors. A smiling yellow sun would turn the harbor blue. Scarlet roofs would glow against green hills. Wellington looked fresh out of a children’s picture book. Once again, locals could congratulate each other for living in what they called a tropical paradise (well, practically).

Six weeks after Lydia’s arrival Rob was due to turn nine years old. The prospect of another ninth birthday cast an irrational shadow. Would it be an unlucky number for all our children?

“How do you want to celebrate?” I asked Rob one morning, nervous he might ask for a repeat of Sam’s eerie ninth birthday “party.”

“What I’d really like,” he said while I held my breath over the kitchen sink, “is a pajama sleepover party.”

“With Jason?”

“And Simon and Tom and Andrew and Nathan…”

“A big party?” I asked, imagining happy noises resounding off the wallpaper. “Let’s do it!”

“Can I ask Daniel and Hugo and Mike, too?”

“Of course! Do you want girls?”

Rob looked at me as if I’d suggested he have broccoli and onions on toast for breakfast.

Th e morning of Rob’s birthday we woke him early and presented him with a small packet wrapped in red tissue with a blue bow. Superman colors.

“Do I open the card first?” he asked breathlessly.

He was delighted to find Cleo had added her signature to his birthday card in the form of a paw print made in blue finger paint. Always a careful child, he coaxed the cellophane tape off with his fingernails instead of tearing at the paper the way other boys would have done. Watching his face, so sweet and expectant, I wasn’t sure he was ready for the gift, but Steve and I had talked it over countless times and chosen it with care.

“Wow!” he cried, his face blazing with joy. “A real Casio digital watch!” It was out of its box and on his wrist before anyone could say “Multiple Functions.”

“I love it!” he said. “It’s even got a light, see? If you push this button you can tell the time in the dark.”

Th ere was no doubt Rob’s ease with technology hadn’t come from my side of the family. He pored over the sheet of instructions and told us the watch could do just about anything except fly into space. Flushed with satisfaction, he peeled off the protective seal over its face, folded the instructions and placed them respectfully inside the box the watch had arrived in.

“It’s the best present I’ve ever had,” he sighed, lifting his Superman watch from his bedside table. “But I can’t wear two watches.”

His thumb circled the face of the Superman watch. Something jarred in my throat. How could we have been so insensitive?

“I really love this Superman watch…” Of course. It was too soon for him to give up the comfort and connection with Sam it provided.

“Don’t worry, Rob,” I said. “We’ll take the Casio back to the shop and change it for something else.”

“No! That’s not what I meant!” he said, shaking his head earnestly. “I mean…do you think Sam would mind if I put his watch away in my drawer?”

The sharp lump in my throat dissolved as I drew Rob into my neck and stroked his hair.

“Sam wouldn’t mind at all,” I said, swallowing back tears of pride. “In fact, I think he’d say you’re ready for a big boy’s watch.”

Later that night, boys trooped down the zigzag wearing their pajamas and smiles bright enough to blind the possum who was busy demolishing the tree by the gate. Rob welcomed them inside, decked out in a bright-red dressing gown and his brand-new watch, with more digital functions than the space shuttle.