July 13, 2020, Journal

There’s nowhere for me to go in this heater-forsaken country but north, where rolling mountainsides of ferns and palms promise sun-drenched mornings and shelter from the bitter Antarctic winds. I’m content to float meaninglessly towards warmth. It’s God’s chance to prove that my life is worthwhile, and I just want to step back and see what happens. If I’m going to stay in New Zealand, I’ll have to replenish my plundered stash of weed by driving to Motueka, and that appears to be my only plan. Covid had given me license to be myself intensely, and I certainly don’t want to be sober for that.

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Half of a smooth, laterally-striped bivalve shell soothed my restless fingers as I waited for my new rental car to arrive in Christchurch this afternoon. Davina gave the shell to me yesterday, at a small beach in Timaru that was sandwiched between clusters of cargo ships and discarded boulders. The rather industrial city had made an honest attempt to preserve what natural beauty the beach had by leaving the surrounding ankle-high dunes to sprout whatever wayward grasses they fancied, and the resulting sandscape had a disheleved atmosphere that seemed to encourage spent seashells and other flotsam.

We’d met there with less than an hour to spare before the premature winter sunset. It was hard for her to get time off work; at least while the sun was up. Davina and her boyfriend, Nathan, had found jobs at a potato farm after our post-lockdown diaspora from the Lodge. They’d been desperate to find a way to pay for the extensive repairs that their caravan needed, and if they could make it through three months of dirt and discomfort, they could even fund an adventurous summer in that caravan.

From what Davina told me on Timaru’s wind-whipped beach, the conditions that she had to endure were barely worth the pay. Her days were spent kneeling outside, planting potatoes in freezing mud from dawn to dusk. She and her boyfriend shared an unheated, roach-infested flat with two other potato farmers. Nathan was succumbing to a deep depression, and she had little energy with which to support him after a hard day’s work in the potato fields. Davina was lonely. Davina needed a friend. I love her, and I wish I was the sort of person that could be a friend.

My efforts at friendship were a superficial success in that we were both happy that we’d spent time together. I said some kind and thoughtful things, Davina nodded in agreement, but we somehow both knew that I would remain distant after our lovely beach rendezvous. I don’t want to be like that. I want friends. I just don’t know how it’s done with girls.

One sympathizes, right? One listens without judgement and with unswerving loyalty. I did that! I listened well and awkwardly reciprocated. Neither of us enjoyed my reluctance to talk about my own exploits over the last couple of months. I told her about the Mormon and our breakup, carefully obscuring the details of our somewhat illegal lockdown dalliance so that it would seem as though I’d met him after the social distancing restrictions were lifted.

My problems were nothing compared to Davina’s. She and Nathan were impoverished migrant workers who were being taken advantage of by Kiwi farmers who’d never treat their own that way. I’d experienced a little of that while planting garlic on the Mormon’s farm, but my role in New Zealand is that of a tourist. I’m here to use New Zealand, not to allow her to use me. I’ve done my time, and this vacation is my reward for surviving death and divorce. We’re on opposite sides of some vast mountain range of life; Davina and I, as much as we understand and love each other’s personalities. She’s building her life, and I’m walking away from the rubble of mine.

Davina is young and strong. Her kindness is as rich and beautiful as her long, honey-blonde hair. I’ve been there; full of feminine power and promise, attached to some weak man; and if someone had told me then to cut my losses and run, I’d never have forgiven them. Not until well after the divorce, anyway. I could see that Nathan is a good person – it’s obvious in his art: his detailed wildlife photography and his unique, lovingly carved wooden spoons that he’s understandably reluctant to sell. This sort of situation is foreign to me: none of my previous partners have been good enough to fight for. I really had no idea how to advise Davina on her struggle to improve her relationship and her living conditions.

As the darkness grew, the ends of the grey wharf disappeared into the heavy twilight that was swallowing the ocean. We slowly walked back towards our cars in the blue-tinted light, the imprints of our bare toes leaving a series of tiny seawater puddles in the soft, saturated sand. A sprawling glob of seaweed encouraged a slight change of direction, and Davina paused to take a few long, satisfied breaths of ocean air.

“I’m so glad to be out here on the beach. You know they have Little Blue Penguins here sometimes – the Korora,” Davina glowed peacefully, naming the native bird as she would name a friend. “It’s hard to catch sight of them, but we’ve seen them in a few places along this coast. Nathan is amazing at photographing birds. I’m lucky that he loves being quiet in nature as much as I do.”

“No doubt. Well, that’s a great way to get him out of a funk – go hiking for a few hours and let him soak up the good vibes.”

“Work is so consuming.” Davina’s gaze stretched long over the ocean. “We’re both so tired, all the time.”

“Ai.” I couldn’t look at her because I was afraid of sounding like her mother. “The sicker you get, the harder it is to take the medicine.”

“I don’t want to go back to planting potatoes tomorrow.”

“Is it worth your time?” I asked her.

“It’s what I have to do if I want to keep my visa and enjoy at least a little bit of this country.” Davina’s sad smile encompassed every unhappy accident that she’d endured since she left Israel with Nathan. “My ankle is finally strong again, lockdown is finally over, and the caravan is working again. I want to see the little Rurus, the native wood-owls.”

I smiled back in the dark, joyous at the thought of Davina meeting an adorable little Ruru in the woods. In truth, that moment would indeed be worth months of digging around in cold mud. I wanted to squeeze her shoulders in a half-hug, but I’m not worthy of the friendship of such a sweet soul. Instead, I crammed my hands deeper into my jacket pockets and we walked on.

“He’s worth it,” Davina said quietly.

“He is,” I agreed, with whole-hearted honesty. And she is, too.

We continued in silence, so I tried to redeem myself with more words. “It’s rare to find good men like Nathan. If you love him, you’re the best one to do the hardest job of helping him through his depression. An artist that’s loved is a blessing to this unfriendly world, but one that battles alone cannot win against the shadows that art reveals.”

I stopped, uncertain of the truth in my words. I always say stupid things. Davina paused with me, and scooped up a perfect little bivalve shell that had washed up with the latest wave. It was a Pipi, an abundant native mollusc that gumboot-shod Kiwis sometimes collected for chowders or fry-ups. The creature inside had vacated recently, so the two halves of his shell were wide open and glossy with vitality. Soft grey growth lines pulsed out from his little core like waves in a pool. Taking the shell in both hands, Davina cracked the halves asunder, and I hushed my instinctive gasp.

Davina handed me one half of the Pipi, as if she was performing a familiar sacred ritual.

“Here,” she said. “For you. To remember this beautiful beach.”

Pipi in hand, I was shocked and silent. Is this friendship? It was too beautiful to be real. I was included, on purpose and without hesitation. Davina must be mistaken, or quite lonely. Was I good enough to be one half of a whole? Sure, I’d once given her and Nathan a ride to the auto mechanic’s shop, but didn’t she know that I was terrible at returning texts? I don’t deserve gifts. I don’t get included. I’m like a rescued wild animal… although I want to show gratitude and kindness, you can’t expect me to ever understand how to be tame. It’s just not worth your time. It’s an insufficient return on your investment.

Night concealed my stupid teary eyes, and I smiled wide so that my white teeth caught orange glow of the wharf’s walkway above us. Davina laced her arm through mine, and we amiably slipped back through the unkempt lamplit blue dunes. My thanks stumbled out as we hugged and parted ways in the parking lot. I’m far too embarassed at my social awkwardness to consider meeting up with her again. I can’t pinpoint what I did wrong, but I know that I’ve somehow ruined yet another potential friendship. Grasping the little shell close, I wondered what it might be like to have these precious, kind moments at the beginning of a relationship rather than at the end. Would it be as unsettling as tasting unsalted food?

I’ll never know. My life is hard in a different way. It’s not hard because I’m soft. It’s hard because I’m hard, and softness can’t survive the sharp edges that are proof of my passing.