Between Us

by Clare Atkins

  ‘I don’t know.’ I avoid her eyes; my steps leave wet thong shapes on the concrete path.

  ‘Ponyboy’s been asking about you.’

  ‘Who?’

  She nods towards Arash and gives me a pointed look. ‘You know. Ponyboy.’

  I catch on. ‘Oh.’

  ‘He said he’s sent you a lot of messages.’

  ‘I haven’t had time to check.’

  ‘He wants to visit you.’

  ‘I hope you told him no.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You can tell him yourself when you return to school.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m going to. I just feel like I should focus on family. That’s what matters the most. Not school … or anything else …’

  We both know the anything else is Jono.

  Zahra frowns her confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’

  I tell her about feeling guilty for leaving Maman to call Jono, but she brushes my concern away. ‘She was due to have the baby soon anyway. It’s not your fault she went into labour that day.’

  I tell her hesitantly, tentatively, warily about my bargain with God.

  To my surprise, she just laughs. ‘You don’t think I haven’t made about a million of those myself? It’s not like you have to keep your end of the deal. God never does.’

  ‘But Maman and the baby are well.’

  She regards me sceptically. ‘Does your Maman seem well to you?’

  I can see her point, but I’m not sure I can renegotiate the terms of my bargain now.

  She says, ‘You know what God – and your family – would want? For you to stay at school and become a doctor or a scientist or an astronomer. Or an astronaut like Anousheh Ansari.’

  I manage a smile.

  She takes hold of my hand and swings it playfully as we walk. ‘Come back to school, Anahita. And if you’re still determined to keep your deal, then just don’t sit with Ponyboy anymore. You know we’d all love it if you sat upstairs at lunchtime again. Just, whatever you do, don’t give up school. If you stay in here, you’ll get depressed.’

  I know she knows what she’s talking about; her long sleeves brush up against my bare arm.

  She pulls her ID card up over her head and holds it out towards me. ‘Here. I’ve got computer time now. Go and check your messages, and I’ll take Arash to the Mess.’

  I hesitate, looking at her ID photo. ‘What if they realise I’m not you?’

  She scoffs. ‘You really think the officers can tell two Iranian girls apart?’

  She’s right. I show Zahra’s ID and walk straight in. When I log on to Facebook, a river of messages from Jono floods onto my page. The first lot are almost perfunctory. Congratulations and practical questions about how I am. But then worry seeps into his words. And then, the most recent ones aren’t questions at all. I realise they are notes from our class. They’ve started the unit on the Big Bang. I read his carefully typed words:

  The Big Bang according to Turner.

  In the beginning there was nothing. The universe was just a small, hot mass. But then something happened. They don’t know exactly what … (Or maybe I just tuned out during that bit) But maybe it was as small as two atoms connecting and bang! The mass expanded quickly … creating the stars and galaxies we see today … (Just like when I first saw you. Bang! ;-))

  I feel my resolve to keep my promise to God slipping away.

  JONO

  I wait out the front of school, fiddling nervously with my phone. I’m determined to approach Zahra again, and find out Ana’s boat number, even if it means begging. The detention centre bus turns into the school driveway. I pocket my phone and straighten my back. Peer into the windows, as the bus pulls up.

  I spot Zahra … and Ana! My heart leaps.

  I grin and wave at her through the glass, but she doesn’t see. She files down the aisle of the bus behind Zahra, pausing to show the guard something as she gets off.

  I take an eager step towards her. ‘Ana – you’re back!’

  She looks up and sees me, but her smile, when it finally comes, is fragile and uneasy. Zahra quickens her pace and moves ahead. I hang by Ana’s side, unsure what to say.

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘Good, thank you.’

  ‘And the baby? Is it a boy or girl?’

  ‘A sister.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘We don’t know. My mother is … she still decide.’

  The chatter of students swells around us, as we enter the school. Talk about the weekend and parties and who kissed who and who went where. We reach the base of the stairs.

  I try to sound confident as I say, ‘See you at lunch then? Usual place?’

  She takes so long to answer, that I am relieved when she finally says, ‘Yes.’

  Something has changed between us. Ana sits further away from me than usual, and barely talks as we eat our lunch.

  I ask if she got all my messages, and she nods.

  I force myself to ask, ‘Then why didn’t you reply?’

  She shrugs, but I don’t want to let it drop. I ask if she’s angry at me for not being able to talk the night Dad answered my phone. I guess that she was calling to tell me about her mum having the baby. I say I wanted to talk to her – I wanted to talk to her so much – but Dad was hanging around, acting weird. I don’t mention the fight that followed.

  Ana shakes her head. ‘No, not angry,’ she says, and then nothing more.

  I keep babbling to fill the silence. ‘I got you a present actually … I didn’t bring it in to school today ’cause I didn’t know you were coming back. Zahra said you might be gone a while, you know, because of the baby. But I can bring it in tomorrow. Will you be here every day now?’

  ‘I think so,’ she says. ‘But I don’t … need any present.’

  ‘I know.’ I press my body back hard into the brick wall. ‘I just saw it and thought of you, that’s all.’ Another awkward pause. ‘I guess I could keep it for your birthday. When’s your birthday?’

  ‘April. The twelve.’

  I try to sound cheery. ‘Okay, well, that’s pretty soon. I’ll save it for then. If you’re sure.’

  I pull out my iPod and she tucks the earpiece into her ear. I play her the music I know she loves. The music she says is beautiful ugly. I want to ask again about her complete lack of contact, but I can sense tears around the edges of her, so I stay quiet.

  As the school bell sounds for the end of lunch, the words well out of me. ‘Ana, I can tell you’re upset about something … and you don’t have to talk about it … and this probably doesn’t count for much but … I really missed you … and I’m happy you’re back.’

  She finally raises her eyes to meet mine and seems to see me for the first time.

  Her voice wavers. ‘It does count. Thank you.’

  ANA

  Eliza comes to fill in the paperwork for the baby’s birth certificate.

  It says: Place of birth: Royal Darwin Hospital, Northern Territory. The space for her name is still blank. Eliza taps her finger next to it. ‘Have you had any thoughts? I mean, legally, you can take two months, but that seems like a long time to be calling her Baby.’

  Arash rearranges himself on Eliza’s lap, basking in her easy smiles.

  Habibeh translates, then asks Maman in Farsi: ‘Do you want a name that’s traditional or modern?’

  Maman sits slumped in her chair, staring out the window, through the grid of wire.

  ‘Anahita can choose.’

  It breaks my heart. She’s always been so proud of the names she chose for us. Anahita is the goddess of water, and Arash was Maman’s favourite character from the Shahnameh, a national hero who saved Persia.

  I say, ‘What about Setareh?’ It means star.

  Maman’s eyes flick towards me.

  Eliza says, ‘How do you spell that?’ She writes it down on the form. ‘Have you called Abdul yet? He must be thrilled.’ Maman is silent, so Eliza looks to me. ‘Anahita? Your dad?’<
br />
  ‘He’s not my dad.’

  ‘Sorry. The dad of Setareh.’

  ‘We have not called.’

  Eliza’s lip quivers with compassion. ‘Well, you should do that. It would be good for your mum. For all of you.’ She turns back to Maman. ‘Are you eating? The officers said you’ve skipped a few meals.’

  Maman practically spits her answer. There is venom in her voice. ‘Eat? For what?’

  KENNY

  I see the young, blonde case manager, the one I saw before with the girl. She’s pacing in the smokers’ area. I hesitate, then approach. ‘You got a spare?’

  ‘Um. Yeah, okay. Sure.’

  It’s not until I get closer that I realise she’s been crying.

  She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand, looking self-conscious. ‘Sorry … it’s just been one of those days …’ She digs a cigarette from the packet in her pocket and holds it out towards me. Her hands are shaking. ‘Do you ever get the feeling they hate you?’ There’s a laugh in her voice, but I can tell it’s not a joke.

  ‘Hate you? You mean them?’ I gesture to the rows upon rows of rooms.

  She nods. I take the cigarette and hold it awkwardly in my hand, wishing I’d thought of a different excuse to talk to her. It’s been nearly twenty years since I last smoked; I gave up at the same time as Roxanne, when she was pregnant with Lara.

  The woman forces a smile. ‘I thought I could make a difference, you know? Working on the inside. You probably think that’s pathetic.’

  ‘No … no, not at all …’

  There is something about her that reminds me of Jonathan. The way she doesn’t seem to have a verbal filter or an emotional shell. I hate people crying. I never know what to do.

  ‘Have you been working here long?’ It’s not like I really have to ask; if the tears weren’t enough of a giveaway, her Department lanyard is still shiny and new. I’ve even overheard officers placing bets on which way she’ll go. According to the old hands ‘newbies’ go one of two ways: they either harden or break. I wonder which way they bet on me.

  ‘Just a few months. It’s going really well, as you can see.’ She manages a sarcastic smile, but her eyes pool with sadness. ‘How do you work in here every day?’ She looks at me like she really wants to know.

  I’m surprised to hear myself saying, ‘I think about my son. I do it for him. So he never has to work somewhere like this.’

  I realise I mean it.

  She smiles again, and this time her smile is as warm as sunshine. She gestures to my still-unlit cigarette. ‘You going to light that?’

  I’m glad she can’t see me blushing – there are some advantages to Asian skin. I look around and notice the safety lighter in a nearby post. I bend down to look at it, unsure how it works.

  There’s amusement in her voice, as she says, ‘It’s a bit like a car cigarette lighter. Just push the red button and stick the end in the hole beneath.’

  I follow her instructions, grateful that she doesn’t ask why I don’t already know this. Smoke curls from the white tip of the yellow stick. I take a tentative drag. It’s more bitter than I remember, but there’s something familiar about it too. Comforting, even. I inhale again, this time deeper, trying not to cough. I’m sheepish, like a teenager trying smoking for the first time.

  In between puffs, the woman says, ‘I’m Eliza.’

  ‘Kenny.’ I try to sound offhand as I add, ‘So, which families are you working with?’

  ‘Which ones aren’t I? The list feels this long!’ She holds her hands a metre apart, her forced laugh betraying the fact she’s overwhelmed.

  ‘I think I’ve seen you with the Shirdels?’

  She nods. ‘That’s who I just saw. Do you know them? I mean, I guess everyone knows everyone in here.’

  ‘Not personally. But professionally, yes.’

  She seems amused by my need to clarify. ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’s their story? I mean, before they came to Australia?’ I slide it into the conversation like it’s a normal thing to ask.

  But Eliza is suddenly wary. ‘I, um, don’t think I’m supposed to discuss their personal histories … am I?’

  I squirm. ‘Well, us officers know a lot of it anyway … but if you don’t feel comfortable talking about it …’

  ‘They said it was confidential. In the training.’

  ‘Of course. I was just curious. They seem so well-off – the way the mother holds herself, the makeup, the hair … I didn’t understand why someone like that would come here by boat.’

  Eliza exhales her smoke away from me, towards the fence. ‘Sorry, I can’t say. Just got to be careful, you know? It’s not like I can afford to get fired.’

  I take another drag to hide my frustration. ‘No worries. I understand.’

  ANA

  I settle Maman in the seat in front of the computer and open Skype. The camera is deactivated, as always, but the microphone works. Abdul answers the call straight away; I sent him a message to organise the time.

  His voice is tinny through the speakers. ‘Hello? Hello? Fatemeh? Arash? Anahita? Are you there?’

  He sounds so far away. He is so far away.

  Maman leans in towards the black monitor. ‘I’m here, Abdul. We all are. We’re here.’

  Arash is by her side. He yells, as if trying to project his voice across the ocean to Nauru. ‘I’m here too, Baba! I’m here too!’

  We hear Abdul laugh and, encouraged, Arash yells again. ‘I’ve got a little sister, Baba!’

  There’s a long gaping silence, then a ragged sob. ‘A little girl. Praise, Allah. What’s she called?’

  ‘Setareh,’ I say. ‘Maman let me choose.’

  Abdul says, ‘Perfect. So I can see her every night.’ There’s another gasp, then: ‘What does she look like? Our Setareh?’

  I raise the sleeping baby up, then lower her again, remembering the camera doesn’t work.

  Maman is sobbing now, so hard she can’t talk at all, can barely balance on her chair.

  I gaze into Setareh’s tiny, squished-up face. ‘She’s beautiful. Like Maman.’

  Maman lets out a low, mournful moan.

  JONO

  I do everything I can to bring back the Ana from before, the one whose smile reached her eyes. I try to do more ‘things that count’. I play new music, downloaded especially for her ears. I write out the lyrics to the Australian hip-hop songs she likes so she can understand all the words; I copy them down from my laptop screen in scrawling, looping pen until my hand aches like I’ve been in an exam.

  I bring double-sized lunches to school to share, replacing my canteen-bought meat pies with Vietnamese food from home. Aunty Minh is ecstatic and starts bringing extra things over: sweet soups and sticky rice and spring rolls. She thinks I’m eating it all by myself, and cooks bigger quantities every time she’s at our house for dinner. ‘You eat good. Growth spurt. About time – too skinny.’

  I just nod and smile and pack it away for tomorrow’s lunch.

  Dad has been brooding and distant since our fight. Apart from mealtimes, I avoid him and stay in my room, or go out to the shed to drum.

  At first, it seems as if Ana barely tastes the food I bring. But as the weeks go by she starts to comment on things that are especially spicy, salty or sweet.

  One day, I ask if there’s any food she misses from home.

  ‘My maman’s curries.’

  Her voice is filled with yearning.

  ANA

  I scoop the chicken and steamed vegetables into a napkin hidden on my lap, then twist the thin white tissue into a ball and tuck it into my sleeve. I want to sneak it back to our room for Maman, and mix it in with two-minute noodles so there’s a chance she’ll eat it. She hates the bland food in the Mess and, lately, refuses to come, saying it’s too loud. She hears the scrape of plastic cutlery; the clang of metal from the serving area; even the chewing of food in mouths – she says it sounds like the saliva and gnashing teeth are right in her ear
.

  I look over at Arash, who is eating a plate of plain rice and sipping juice. I didn’t have the energy to fight with him about eating a proper meal today.

  Around us, rows of people sit eating and holding low, worried conversations. The mood is brittle, like something’s about to snap. I tune in to the talk around me. There’s been another attempted suicide, and more people have been moved in the middle of the night. Everyone’s heard the heavy clomping of officers’ boots, and the terrified screams as people are dragged out of their rooms and taken to the Sun compound. The rumours are that they’re being sent to Nauru.

  An older Iranian woman tuts. ‘The poor babies, they’re always sick on Nauru.’

  Even the thought of Setareh on Nauru makes me want to scream.

  Arash finishes his rice, and I stand. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Ice-cream … I want ice-cream,’ he whines.

  ‘No!’ My voice is louder, angrier, harsher than I expect. He flinches, and I quickly try again. Softer this time. ‘Arash, please, let’s get back to Maman. She needs us. Come on.’

  He reluctantly follows me towards the exit. I’m relieved to see that Kenny’s stationed at the door, counting people in as others leave. I try to hurry past, angling my sleeveful of dinner behind my back.

  Then I hear his voice. ‘Wait. Stop.’

  Arash disappears behind my skirt.

  Kenny nods towards my sleeve. ‘What’s that?’

  I look around. Blockhead is walking towards us from the bain-maries.

  I whisper, quick and urgent: ‘Kenny, please … my maman won’t eat … she has baby …’

  ‘Take it out.’ There is no trace of understanding or friendship in his voice.

  Blockhead is by his side now. I inch the bundled napkin out of my sleeve and hold it out.

  Kenny wrinkles his face in disgust. ‘I don’t want it. Put it in the bin.’

  KENNY

  I feel Rick nod his approval, as the girl throws the balled-up food into the bin by the door.

  I hear myself saying, ‘I don’t know how you do things in your country, but here we have rules.’ My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s a phrase I’ve heard Rick say, yet never thought I’d use myself.