She may not have done anything, Lori. She released a flood of pent-up anger at the tattoo parlor and she cried herself to sleep afterward. Catharsis is good for the soul, my dear. I wish most sincerely that Bree’s catharsis hadn’t come at the expense of poor Roger’s glasses, but it may have been just what she needed to steady herself. She may be all right for a while.
“If Bree felt better after her meltdown, why didn’t she say good-bye to Kati and Kitta?” I asked. “Why did she just duck out on them? She didn’t even leave them a note.”
I suspect that Bree was too ashamed of herself to face her friends, even in writing, which indicates to me that her conscience is still functioning. Furthermore, her refusal to sedate herself with alcohol argues for a strong sense of self-preservation. A girl her age and in her situation might be sorely tempted to drown her sorrows at the nearest pub, but Bree has so far displayed no inclination to test her mettle against the brutal disease that killed her father. Surely these are hopeful signs.
“Don’t the tattoos bother you?” I asked.
Not in the least. Bree was born and raised in New Zealand, where tattoos are as common as sheep. I might have been alarmed if she’d decided to decorate her body with skulls or satanic symbols, but she chose flowers. As rebellious acts go, having oneself tattooed with flowers is fairly harmless.
“What about leaving Ruru behind?” I looked at Reginald, who sat on the bedside table, gazing amiably at his new acquaintance. “I’d have to be in a terrible state to forget Reg.”
Bree IS in a terrible state. Catharsis may be good for the soul, but it isn’t a cure-all, Lori. Bree’s troubles are far from over, but I do not believe that she is in imminent danger of harming herself irretrievably. Her mind must have been in a whirl when she fled the condo. I’m certain that she suffered pangs of remorse when she discovered Ruru’s absence. Fortunately, she has a ruru tattooed on her shoulder.
“A tattoo is no substitute for a soft, fluffy owl,” I said.
Perhaps not, but I learned from one of my Kiwi soldiers that the Maori regard the ruru as a sort of guardian spirit. We must hope that Bree’s tattoo will protect her until you can return her little companion to her.
“We fly to Queenstown tomorrow,” I said. “If Bree’s not there, I will definitely release a few pent-up emotions.”
It will do your soul good. In the meantime, get some sleep. Flying out of the Wellington airport is considered by some to be one of life’s greatest thrills!
I reread Aunt Dimity’s final sentence warily as her words faded from the page, then closed the journal and placed it on the table.
“Call me a wimp,” I muttered to Reginald, “but the prospect of another thrilling flight doesn’t fill me with undiluted joy.”
I patted his head and Ruru’s, turned out the light, and fell into an uneasy sleep, wondering what fresh terrors New Zealand had in store for me.
We took off sideways. I didn’t know that a plane could take off sideways until we finished zigzagging down the runway and became airborne, by which time I’d lost the will to live.
“Now you know why it’s called Windy Wellington,” Cameron said, with a certifiably insane shout of laughter. “The North Island and the South Island are separated by the Cook Strait, which acts as a wind tunnel. The weather was unusually placid yesterday, but it’s business as usual today.”
“Lucky me,” I croaked. For some reason, my mouth had gone dry.
“Should be smooth sailing from here on in,” he assured me. “Nothing but blue skies ahead.”
“And blue sea below,” I said, peering at the strait’s white-capped, roiling waves. “Is your airplane equipped with life vests?”
“Relax, Lori,” said Cameron. “The best is yet to come.”
“Define what you mean by ‘the best,’ ” I said, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Four million people live in New Zealand,” he said. “Only one million live on the South Island. It’s uncrowded, unspoiled, and incredible. You’ll see.”
I did see. I saw the Southern Alps, a majestic spine of razor-edged mountains that ran the entire length of the South Island. I caught glimpses of tarns, waterfalls, glaciers, and the glistening pinnacle of Mount Aspiring. I saw Aoraki/Mount Cook, New Zealand’s tallest mountain, where Sir Edmund Hillary honed his climbing skills before tackling Everest. I saw clouds reflected with surreal precision in the mirrorlike surface of Lake Tekapo, and gazed in awe at the sheer-walled fjord called Milford Sound, a haven for penguins, seals, dolphins, and boatloads of tourists. I saw enough breath-taking beauty to make me wish with all my heart for a chance to see more.
My head was so full of spectacular images that I thought it would burst when the snowcapped, serried peaks of the Remarkables range came into view, rising like white flames above the azure waters of Lake Wakatipu. Queenstown hugged the lake’s shore, clung to the foothills surrounding it, and spilled into adjoining valleys, but the city was dwarfed by the absurdly lovely landscape that surrounded it.