by Clare Atkins
But I don’t want Rick asking me questions about the girl again, or accusing me of giving her special treatment, so I hold my ground.
The girl nods and apologises, even cowers slightly. And to my surprise it feels good. Good to be listened to. Good to have respect. The opposite of how Jonathan treats me at home.
She backs out the door and walks away. Her brother runs in front of her, then doubles back and tugs her hand. She shakes him off and keeps walking.
I feel a twinge of guilt.
Rick must see it in my face, because he says, ‘Don’t feel too bad, mate. Just a lover’s tiff. She’ll get over it.’ There’s laughter in his eyes, but his mouth doesn’t smile.
I tell him to rack off.
JONO
In Science, we learn about galaxies and Edwin Hubble and radio telescopes and the expanding universe.
But despite Turner’s encouraging smiles and prompts, Ana doesn’t ask questions or even take notes. She just sits there, legs dangling, staring out the window.
I joke, ‘Hey, you do a good impression of me.’ But neither of us laugh.
I take notes on her behalf, hoping she’ll read them at home. But I don’t think she does.
I go to Cas Mall and buy her a packet of plastic glow-in-the-dark stars. The kind I had when I was little. The kind I got from Mum.
Will’s given me his iPhone again, on permanent loan, so there’s no need to save up for that. Still, remembering my promise to buy something for myself, I use the money from the Ludshed to buy myself the Nikes, then spend the leftover bucks on an external hard drive from JB Hi-Fi. It feels good to want things and just be able to walk in and buy them. Not have to wait or wish or plead with Dad.
I hand the stars to Ana at lunch, explaining that you can see them in the dark.
Her eyes light up. For the first time in weeks, she is luminous. Aglow.
ANA
I hover impatiently as Meena loads Setareh into the pram ready to take Maman to get her nightly sleeping tablets from the nurse. The bedroom door finally bangs shut behind them.
I crouch down beside Arash. ‘You are not allowed to do this – understand?’
He nods solemnly, staring with big brown eyes.
I pull Jono’s gift from my schoolbag, then climb up the metal frame so I’m the height of the top bunk. I hold on with one hand, reaching up with the other to stick the stars onto the ceiling, one by one. They are pale yellow, barely visible against the white concrete in the fluorescent light.
The thought crosses my mind that if an officer did come in now they might think I was trying to hang myself. Enough people have tried.
I look around, up high. How would you do it, anyway? There is nothing to attach to, nothing but the light fitting, and surely that wouldn’t hold.
I climb down and tell Arash to close his eyes. He looks scared but shuts them anyway. I feel a pang of wonder-guilt; he trusts me so completely. I turn off the light. ‘Now open them.’
I’m expecting a gasp of delight, but Arash sees the stars hovering in the dark and starts to whimper.
‘No, Ana. No! I want to get off. Get off, Ana! Go home!’ His little body is trembling with fear.
I quickly turn the light back on and wrap him in my arms. ‘It’s okay, Arash. I’m here. I’m here.’
I realise the last starry nights he saw were on the boat.
The ground seems to lurch beneath me …
… as waves hurl me from side to side, crushing my body against Maman’s. Abdul is beside her, vomiting over the side. I hold Arash tight, desperate to protect him as he sobs in my arms.
There are people everywhere around me, beside me, on top of me, hemming me in.
The stars above us are frozen and beautiful, but I am covered in sweat, and the air is full of the smell of sick and salt.
Daylight appears at the edges of our vision and slowly creeps in.
The stars fade into pale white-blue.
A man’s voice yells out.
And suddenly everyone is calling, pointing up at the endless sky, crying and praising God.
Two white seabirds hover above us, floating on invisible currents of wind.
Maman has tears of joy in her eyes. ‘Land must be close.’
I watch the birds as they dip to skim the water.
They are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
I hug Arash to my chest and reassure him that we aren’t on the boat, that we’re never going to be on the boat again.
He gradually stops crying. I tell him I’ll take the stars down, but he shakes his head and says to leave them up: ‘For my sister, Setareh.’
That night, the pointy shapes glow down at us from above.
Maman’s voice reaches out, soft and wary. ‘Anahita, what is that? On the ceiling?’
‘Stars, Maman,’ I say. ‘My teacher gave them out at school. We’re studying the Big Bang. It was this huge explosion, how the universe began.’
For a long time, Maman is quiet. I hear Arash’s breathing settle into the even rhythm of sleep.
Then Maman’s voice searches me out again. ‘I remember your father told me about this big explosion, before … It is in the Qu’ran too. Heaven and earth were stitched together … then they were torn apart …’
She breaks off, and the room is silent again.
The stars fade into black.
I hear Maman sobbing softly in the dark.
In the morning, an officer appears at our door.
‘KIN016? You have a birthday this month, right?’
I pause, confused, then nod; it must be the first day of April. The days and weeks have become a blur.
Arash jumps up and down; he’s heard the word ‘birthday’ and knows what that means. ‘Can I come? Can I come, Anahita?’
The officer smiles. ‘Sorry. Just the birthday girl. What month’s your birthday, little man?’
Arash doesn’t understand, so I answer for him. ‘October.’
Arash echoes, ‘Tober.’
The officer lets out a long, low whistle and gives him a sympathetic look. ‘That’s a long time to wait.’
I say, ‘I will stay here. I don’t want cake.’
But he says, ‘Come!’ It sounds like an order.
I follow him to the common room, where a small group stands waiting with another officer. It’s a random assortment of adults and teenagers and children from all the different nationalities: Iranians, Rohingyas, Hazaras, people from New Zealand and Vietnam. There is only one other woman I know: an Afghani Hazara woman called Maheen. She sometimes used to talk to Maman, back when Maman went to the Mess.
I move to Maheen’s side, making polite conversation. ‘What day is your birthday?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not even sure it’s April. My passport was thrown overboard, and that’s the month they gave me when I arrived. It doesn’t matter anyway.’
We walk past the soccer fields to the Rec room and file in.
In the centre of the room there’s a table topped with the biggest cake I’ve ever seen: an enormous white rectangle with green and yellow lettering proclaiming Happy Birthday!
The officer directs us to line up so we can have our photo taken, one by one, with the cake.
I whisper to Maheen. ‘Do we get to keep the photo?’
‘Of course not. They keep it in your file and give it to you if you get out.’
I hate that she says if, not when.
I’m at the front of the line now. I force a smile, and the flash explodes in my eyes.
The officer waves me on. ‘In the other line now to wait for a piece of cake. We’ll cut it up when everyone’s had their photo.’
Ten minutes later I’m handed a piece of cake and instructed to eat it before I go back to my room.
I hope Jono will forget about my birthday, but of course he doesn’t.
He says, ‘We should do something to celebrate. I could bring in some cake. You said the twelfth, right? I think that’s in the school holidays.’
He consults the calendar on the phone Will gave him. He’s enamoured with it, finding any excuse to use it. He googles the bands we listen to, and shows me stuff on his Facebook and Instagram and Twitter. Sometimes we take turns playing games, seeing who can get the highest score. He’s transferred all his music onto it too. He gave me his iPod – to keep this time – but it’s still in property as they check it all over again.
He finds the twelfth on his calendar. ‘Yeah, it is. And it’s on a Sunday anyway. Damn. I won’t even see you … unless you let me visit …’
I avoid his eyes and don’t reply.
He stares up the corridor, towards the window of blue sky at the end of the hall. ‘Imagine if we could go somewhere … out there. If we could have an ice-cream and go swimming at Nightcliff Pool. Or go shopping at Casuarina … or to a party with dancing … or to see some live music. How good would that be?’
I don’t understand everything he says, but I recognise the verbs. They belong to another world. My former life in Iran.
Swimming. Shopping. Dancing.
Have. Go.
KENNY
I notice the shoes first. It’s hard to miss them: they’re blindingly white. I ask Jonathan where they’re from.
He says, ‘The op-shop in Millner. Lucky, huh? Can you believe it?’
I can’t. Who has enough money to give brand-new shoes to an op-shop? I suppose it could be someone who works at Inpex – the mine – they’re all loaded. But still …
The next day I go into Jonathan’s room to deposit a pile of clean washing on the end of his bed and spot the external hard drive on his desk. I wonder if he’ll try to tell me that came from the op-shop too.
I walk to the desk and flip his laptop lid open. It asks for a password. Damn.
I try some of the standard lazy-person’s options like 1234 and ‘password’ and Jonathan’s name and date of birth, but they don’t work. I try band names from the posters on Jonathan’s wall, but still no luck.
I close the lid and look around the room. Nothing else new or suspicious stands out.
I open Jono’s bedside drawers, one by one. In the bottom drawer there’s a small white box. Opening it carefully, I see a women’s watch, delicate silver with a black face. I stare. Is this for the girl? I hope like hell it’s not. But even if it is, where did he get the money from? Is he borrowing stuff from Will again? Or something else?
Is it possible that he took the job at KFC without me knowing? Surely not.
My mind charges through the options like an angry bull. Borrowing? Begging? Stealing? No. No way. Not my son.
I feel queasy, as I tuck the watch away, back in the drawer.
ANA
I watch Maman fade into herself as the days pass. She hardly eats, only forcing herself to swallow just enough that the officers don’t put her on high watch. At night, she tosses and turns. I take her to the doctor, who prescribes Panadol but refuses to change her sleeping tablets to something stronger.
Meena finds her a bottle of them on the black market instead. The new ones knock her out. Part of me is jealous. I sleep fitfully, as dark images swamp my mind …
… scar-covered arms …
… blood-curdling screams in the night …
… Maman clutching Arash, scared to put him down on the filthy ground …
… handfuls of my hair coming away in my hands …
I ask one of the medical staff if they can find a scarf to cover my head. They ask around the other Christmas Island detainees, and hand me one the next day. It is bright blue like the sky.
As I tie it on, my heart begins to weep …
When I wake, Setareh is crying. Maman doesn’t stir.
I change the baby’s nappy and give her a bottle; the milk in Maman’s sore, red breasts dried up weeks ago now.
She’s stopped putting on makeup, and wakes with knots in the back of her hair. She doesn’t bother brushing them out. She barely notices. Barely leaves the room.
She doesn’t watch The Voice anymore either. The ABC News blares out at us from the TV every hour of every day. It is never good news. We learn that more families have been sent to Nauru, and there are more transfers to come.
Maman’s convinced it will only be so long until it’s us.
I remind her of Eliza’s promise to do everything she can. But the weeks are disappearing so fast, and we both know that even firm ground can shift beneath our feet.
The school holidays inch closer. Jono refuses to let the birthday-outing idea drop.
‘What about the excursions you said they go on? Couldn’t I just come to one of those? I mean, if you’re out somewhere and I happen to be there, who’s going to care?’
I know I should say forget it, never, no way. But the idea is a pinprick of hope. A promise of escape.
Jono looks at me expectantly. ‘So? Where do they take you?’
I’m forced to admit that I don’t actually know. I haven’t been on any excursions to Darwin. I’ve always been too busy with homework, or helping Maman, or looking after Arash, and now Setareh too.
But I remember Zahra telling me about the cinema in Palmerston.
Jono’s eyes light up. ‘Great. Can you find out what movie? And if it’s on Sunday? And the time? I can get a bus in. Meet you there.’
I allow myself to imagine sitting next to him, in the glow of the big screen.
It seems so normal, so carefree, so fun, that I say, ‘Yes.’
KENNY
I pace, as I wait for Jonathan to get home from school. I hope like hell there’s a rational – legal – explanation for all the stuff. Or, if there’s not, that he’ll at least own up without me having to resort to empty threats. The last thing I want is another confrontation. I’m tired of Jonathan avoiding me. Freezing me out.
I hear the front door open then slam shut. There’s a muffled thud: Jonathan tossing his schoolbag against the hallway wall. He enters the kitchen and nods hello.
I hang by the fridge, trying to act normal. Whatever normal is. I ask, ‘How was school, mate?’
To my surprise, he smiles. ‘You never say it right. It’s not met, it’s mate. Say it.’
I can’t help but smile back. It’s a game we’ve played since the kids were small: pronounce the word Aussie-style. ‘Roof’ is the hardest; I sound like a dog barking, no matter how hard I try. But I’m happy to play along. ‘Mate.’
Jonathan says, ‘Ay. Can you say ay?’
‘Ay.’
‘M-ay-te’
‘Mate.’
He laughs and mimics me: ‘Met.’
I laugh too, on a high from the momentary reprieve from Jonathan’s scowls and sulks and snipes. I can’t bring myself to ruin the moment by asking about the hard drive or the watch.
I’m silently berating myself for my pathetic parenting, when he says, ‘Hey, will you be at the markets on Sunday?’
‘Of course. Who else is going to help Minh?’
‘I’m thinking about riding over, like I used to do with Mum and Lara.’
I’m stunned. I tell myself I’ll talk to him about the other stuff later. It can wait.
I beam at this new friendly version of my son. ‘Your aunty would love that.’
ANA
Arash tells Zahra that I got to eat birthday cake, and he didn’t get any and it’s not fair.
She looks at me in surprise. ‘It was your birthday?’
‘Not yet. It was just that thing they do in the Rec room with the cake. My birthday’s on Sunday.’
‘You should’ve said. We should do something.’
I feel awkward, as I tell her I put my boat number down on the list for the excursion to the cinema in Palmerston.
She eyes me curiously. ‘Really? I didn’t think you went on excursions.’
‘Well, Maman said I could and … I haven’t been … and your mum said she’ll help with Setareh …’
Zahra puts a warm, reassuring hand on my arm. ‘I think it’s great you’re going.
I’ll put myself down too.’
Arash starts jumping up and down. ‘I want to come!’
Zahra says, ‘Next time, okay? This movie’s for big people.’
Guilt presses on my shoulders, pinning me down.
I speak in English so Arash can’t understand. I tell Zahra that Ponyboy is coming too, and spin a story about how I happened to mention it at school, and he invited himself along.
It sounds pathetic and made up. It is pathetic and made up.
I brace myself for a lecture, but Zahra just shrugs. ‘If that’s what you want to do.’
‘You’re not going to tell me off?’
‘As long as you don’t tell me off for this.’ She slides an old mobile phone out of her pocket.
I stare. ‘Where did you get that?’
She avoids answering and says, ‘I’m taking photos of all the babies. I want the media to know they’re in here. Can I take one of Setareh?’
I nod, too stunned to question her or object.
She takes the photo and gives Arash a special wink. ‘This is a secret, okay? Don’t tell your mum.’
Arash nods. ‘Oh yes. I know secrets.’
Zahra and I laugh. But I feel uneasy, as she hides the phone back in her pocket.
‘Are you sure about this?’ I ask.
She meets my gaze. ‘You cope in your way, I cope in mine. Are you sure about the movies?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I need this.’
She nods. ‘Then fine.’
JONO
I make my way through the bustle of bodies. Rapid Creek Markets is in full swing.
Dad spots me in the crowd, and his face lights up. He says, ‘Where’s your bike?’
‘Locked it in the car park.’
He nods his approval; he’s always paranoid about things getting stolen, probably ’cause we can never afford to replace them.
‘I thought it might be too small for you,’ he says.