Bono

Kids had left home, but our house had become more a rock pool than an empty nest. The tide washed in to fill vacant bedrooms with granddaughters having sleepovers, family from New Zealand, and visitors from various parts of the world. Through all the seasons, there had hardly been time for Philip and I to notice each other. When things were tough, we’d simply clung to each other. Through other phases, when we were lulled into robotic routine, we’d forgotten to hold each other close, and a cool breeze would waft between us. We’d changed, too, of course. He’d lost most of his hair, I’d shed a breast, but superficial deficits were nothing compared to the things we’d gained. Through the decades we’d learned to forgive our differences, accept them, and in some cases even cherish them.

Once, the sight of a bronze kangaroo would have had no more effect on me than the hippopotamus and penguin circling the clock with it. But after fifteen years, I realized it was no longer a case of choosing between being a New Zealander or an Australian, but a matter of belonging to both countries.

We’d traveled back to New Zealand as often as we could to spend precious time with friends and family, but most of the important and banal things in life had happened to us while we were living in Australia.

Perhaps the greatest miracle was that in this age of mobility all three of our offspring, including their partners and our grandchildren, lived in the same city we did. New York was beguiling, but the prospect of passing months without the joy of meeting Katharine for an impromptu coffee, sitting in on Lydia’s Tuesday meditation class, or answering a casual phone call from Rob on his way home from work. That was altogether a different litter of kittens.

Either way, I wasn’t about to give up on Bono. And when I was honest with myself, Monique was his best and, realistically, last chance. The following morning, Saturday, I slid into my silver shoes and dashed across the road to the flower shop. The manager always seemed surprised when someone wanted to actually buy his blooms. It was as if he’d put them out for decorative purposes only. His tubs of daffodils beamed golden optimism. They looked luckier than tulips. I took two bunches home and stuffed them in the vase beside the fireplace.

Bono watched bemused while I mopped the floor, and sprinkled lavender oil inside the Bunker.

“You’ve got to be on your best behavior,” I said, straightening the nest of papers beside my laptop. “No hiding, okay?”

Desperate to impress, I went into the bathroom and applied a second layer of powder to my nose. An anxious face peered back at me through the gloomy mirror. I ran a comb through my hair, inserted a pair of confident earrings, and applied a circle of lipstick.

We’d been let down before. Even if Monique showed up, she was probably just curious. What could possibly be in this for her? Jon’s words echoed inside my head—only a saint would give Bono a home.

The door buzzed ten minutes early. To my horror, my housemate shot straight under the bed.

Chapter Thirty

FROM ANOTHER LIFETIME

A cat who finds his soul mate is lucky indeed.

The first thing I noticed about Monique was her halo. Now, maybe my sight is going, but I’m seeing halos more often. I think it’s true some people have them. It’s not just a New Age thing. Back in medieval times, artists painted halos around saints as a matter of course.

Halos are more common than you’d think. I see them around babies, old people, and birds. The guy who works in the organic shop has a halo, and so does the road worker who meets my eye with a smile. Sometimes, I’ve wondered if animals look for halos, too, and if that, along with body language, is how they decide whether to trust a human.

I’ve yet to see a halo around a person on a mobile phone. There’s nothing like the deadening ping of a text message to suck the magic out of a situation.

The first person to introduce me to the power of light was His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Back in May 1992, I assumed my boss would be thrilled I had a chance to score an exclusive interview with him.

When she shrugged and said, “The Dalai Who?” I was crestfallen. To add to the complications, the only possible gap in the great man’s timetable was going to be near the end of his tour when he was in Dunedin, near the bottom of the South Island. I was at the other end of the country, near the top of the North Island, in Auckland. On top of that, I was pregnant and a breath away from the seven-month flying ban.

I took annual leave and flew off to Dunedin on a wintry afternoon. After an anxious twenty-four hours holed up in a motel, the call came and I was escorted into his presence.