TURBINE | KAPOHAU

She sighs. A resigned, deflating sigh. Gravity presses on her. She feels leaden, as if her spirits are weighing her down. That it is a clear blue day somehow makes it worse.

She presses her foot on the accelerator, feeling the car surge up the steep hill. Normally the sensation of instant power, of control, gives her a burst of adrenaline, like the rush she remembers from the American rollercoasters of her teens. Today, it just feels flat. She sighs again. Her eyes begin to mist up. Blinking rapidly, she flicks on the windscreen wipers, wishing they could swipe away her tears. The absurd futility of it deflates her more.

Through blurry vision, she pulls over to the side of the road, easing in front of a row of road cones. Their jaunty orange seems to mock her. Pedestrians negotiate their way around a trench in the pavement. She slumps over the steering wheel, wondering whether some kindly passer-by will offer help, half hoping they will and half hoping they won’t.

‘Stop being melodramatic,’ she chides herself. But still she sits there, immobile and immobilised. She thinks about Alice and Georgie – long since grown up and left home. When they were young, she had encouraged them to smile at people they encountered. ‘You watch,’ she had said, ‘you smile at them, and they are likely to smile back at you. A smile cheers everybody up.’ She wishes they were here to smile at her now. She’s proud they are off making their own way in the world – of course she is – but she feels their absence as a gaping hole, like the one she’s parked beside.

Her eyes well up again. She wipes them with the back of her hand, and inspects herself in the rear view mirror. She smiles at herself, but it is just a baring of teeth and doesn’t reach her eyes.

Another sigh. She shakes herself – a pull-yourself-together, get-a-grip shake. She sets off again, pausing for a pedestrian to cross in front of her. The young man, wrangling a pushchair and a dog on a lead, looks up as he reaches the middle of the crossing, waves thanks and smiles at her. She acknowledges the gesture with a nod of her head. No smile, she realises.

She turns on the radio. The weather forecast is as dull as her mood. An orange rain warning is in place for Northland. An orange warning for rain or a warning for orange rain? An image of orange rain falling from the sky flashes before her. That would be striking, she thinks, in an artistic, surreal way – like a child’s naïve drawing. What colour the clouds would be in such a drawing. What about the ground?

Would the orange rain stain? Would trees, flowers, clothes, umbrellas be tinged orange? Would rivers turn orange or just be tinted salmon? Salmon-coloured rivers swimming with salmon. What about them – the salmon? Would they notice or care?

What about a red rain warning? She ponders for a moment, the soundtrack to Purple Rain starting to play in her mind. Orange rain, orange rain. A hint of a smile curls the corners of her mouth.

And what about wind? Orange wind, red wind? That’d look like a Van Gogh painting.

Back home, she examines her face in the mirror. She looks weary, her mouth tight and eyes hooded. She forces a smile, but it is more of a grimace. Looking away, she sees a photo of Alice and Georgie dressed in sparkling party pink beaming at the camera. Her face softens with the warmth of the memory. She looks back at the mirror. ‘Orange rain, orange rain’, she sings. What would those little girls have said about orange rain? They always loved the absurd. They would laugh and laugh, each spurring the other on to laugh some more. And the people around them couldn’t help but laugh at them laughing. Soon everyone would be laughing. A bit like Mary Poppins’ laughing tea party on the ceiling with Uncle Albert.

Maybe a cup of tea would help. She puts on the kettle. Waiting for it to boil, she thinks about laughing. The gurgle of the water boiling could be laughter. She cups her hands around the mug, as if the warmth of the tea could dispel her inner chill. She thinks about the time when Georgie got a book of jokes out of the school library. It had been divided into sections – jokes to tell your mum, jokes to tell your dad, jokes to tell your teacher. The joke about two bishops in bed – which one is wearing the nightie? Answer: Mrs Bishop. When they laughed at it, Georgie had laughed too. Years later, Georgie had admitted that she had never understood why it was funny. She’d laughed anyway because the grown-ups were. Was it even funny?

She could use a good laugh. She vaguely recalls hearing something long ago about laughing therapy. Apparently, people simulate laughing until they really are laughing. Faking it until you make it. She can’t even smile properly, let alone laugh, she thinks.

The doorbell rings. She starts. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She puts down her mug, and shakes herself, willing herself to be composed, calm. She opens the door with a mix of dread and hope. It’s a man in overalls, come to read the meter.

‘Lovely day,’ he says as he bends to take off his boots.

She forces herself to reply – ‘Cold though’ – the habit of social niceties taking over.

The meter read, he bids her, ‘Have a good day.’

‘You too,’ she says as she closes the door, left alone again with her thoughts.

The idea of laughing therapy stays with her. The next day she googles therapeutic laughing and gets over 59,000,000 results. There is even laughter yoga. She reads that it is based on the belief that voluntary laughter provides similar physiological and psychological benefits as spontaneous laughter. She scrolls down, skimming through released endorphins, raised serotonin levels, enhanced cognitive function, strengthened immune system and mood booster. Worth a go.

Tentatively she tries laughter counting – ‘ha, haha, hahaha, hahahaha, hahahahaha, …’ until all the hahas merge into continuous laughter. A little breathless, she pauses and realises that she has actually been laughing. Encouraged, she tries another exercise – growling, howling and making the sounds of animals as if she was a child – and another. There’s lawnmower laughter, breathing laughter, body laughter, singing laughter. So many it’s enough to make you laugh.

What if someone sees me? she thinks. The thought itself is comical – the astonishment, or would it be alarm, on their face. Would they laugh – at me, with me? Or think I’m mad? Do I care? She knew Alice and Georgie would understand. They’d be pleased she’s being proactive, as she’d taught them to be.

The following day she continues with forced animal hilarity. For lion laughter, she stands in front of a mirror, sticks her tongue out and, using her hands as paws, roar laughs. For flying bird laughter she’s supposed to flap her wings and fly around laughing. Does a bird really laugh? she wonders. How? Does it hoot, cackle, titter, screech, crow? All of the above, she decides. So many words for laughing – guffaw, chortle, giggle, snigger, snicker, chuckle. It’s a cheerful thought.

After a week of solo laughing, she needs more. She contemplates going to see something funny, maybe a session of stand-up comedians. The thought of being surrounded by other people laughing appeals. Laughter is infectious, she thinks.

Ah ha! A lightbulb moment. She logs into Neighbourly Noticeboard and types ‘Need a good laugh? Jovial person wants to join or start a laughing therapy group. Please contact Marilyn.’ She clicks on post, sits back and stretches her arms above her head. ‘Jovial person’! She smiles at the thought, and it crinkles her eyes.