The Mimosa Tree

by Antonella Preto

  Mum wakes suddenly with a fart. I squeal and try to smother myself with the pillow and she laughs. She tickles me under the arms so that I have to let the pillow go, then she pulls it off my face to suffer the air with her. I turn and bury my face into the mattress and wait for the smell to clear. Mum stops laughing, then thinks about it and starts laughing again. She tries to muster another but, thankfully, it can’t be done.

  I lie down into her shoulder and she pulls her hands together across my chest so that I am completely wrapped in her hug. My head wobbles as she speaks.

  ‘I had a dream,’ she says.

  ‘Are we going to win the lotto?’

  Everyone around here is obsessed with divining lotto numbers from dreams. Mum’s dreams are considered the most prophetic, even though there have been plenty of numbers but only a few lousy dollars won.

  She shakes her head. ‘Mamma,’ she says, meaning her mother, my Nonna. This is the second favourite dream subject. Dreams of Nonna are always sure to bring a tear to everyone’s eye. Mum sees these dreams as a sort of loophole in the dead-people-can’t-talk-to-you-anymore thing. According to her, apart from a means of getting lotto numbers, dreams are also the vehicle through which the dead can give us important messages. Given the frequency of her appearances in Mum’s dreams, it seems Nonna has a lot to say.

  ‘Ah Nonna,’ I say playing along. ‘So nice of her to call.’

  Mum ignores my dig and I feel her hug tighten around me. Without looking at her I know the tears are starting to fall and I keep my face low, unwilling to risk a soppy eye-staring moment. It’s been about fifteen years since Nonna died but Mum still cries when she thinks about her. You’d think she’d be over it by now.

  ‘She gave me a branch of oleander, told me to eat it.’

  ‘The poisonous stuff?’ I say, remembering the oleander bush that we had in our garden years ago. Dark green leaves and pink flowers. I knew I wasn’t allowed to touch it, but that milky sap, the way it oozed when you twisted off a stem, so smooth and thick you could write with it, was irresistible. I remember how one day, Dad caught me playing with it. I had sap all over my hands and down the front of my dress. He pulled me into the bathroom, his big hands swallowing mine. I cried, but he held me under the hot water until my hands were raw and red from the heat. When he finally let me go I ran to Mum and she picked me up in her arms and dried my tears with a tea towel. As she held me, I could see Dad through the kitchen window, cursing and dripping in sweat as he hacked at the tree with his axe. I remember hating him then, just as I do now. I remember thinking why is he even here? Why can’t it just be me and her?

  ‘See, now that’s stupid,’ I say, trying as always, to show her that dreams are just nonsense and not messages from the dead as she imagines. ‘Why would she want you to eat something poisonous?’

  ‘She said it would make you better.’

  ‘Me? Well what is that supposed to mean?’

  Mum shrugs, but I can tell she’s still thinking about it. It’s pointless trying to talk to her. The more ridiculous the dream, the more important the message. That’s how she sees things and no one is going to convince her otherwise.

  ‘Go on. Get the coffee on. Via will be here soon.’ She’s trying to push me out of bed, but I am holding my place and smiling smugly about the fact that she’s not strong enough to move me. Then she lets out another fart and it’s so bad I leap off the bed and into the hallway. I hear her laughing, complaining about her own smell, as I run away gagging into the kitchen.

  Via arrives soon after the coffee pot starts bubbling. She is wearing her best navy dress and just a hint of shimmering pink lipstick, a rare sight usually reserved for her infrequent attendances at church or the doctor’s. The dress is suffocatingly tight and it makes her look flat and firm except where she spills out of the arm and neck holes like toothpaste from a tube.

  Mum and I are sitting at the table. I’m eating toast with Vegemite and she is sipping on her first brandied coffee for the morning.

  ‘You look very nice today, Via,’ says Mum and Via pushes at her hair like she’s moulding clay into shape.

  ‘Thank you, Sofia.’ Then she looks at me for a compliment.

  I take a bite out of my toast, munch loudly with my mouth open.

  ‘Disgusting,’ she says, because a day cannot go by without one of them shrieking in horror at my taste for Vegemite. I munch louder; make ‘mmmmm’ noises until she’s so disgusted she’s forgotten about fishing for compliments. She sits down and pours herself a coffee, lights up a cigarette. She looks at me over the rim of her coffee cup.

  ‘ That what you’re wearing?’ she says, smoke lapping at her face.

  I am wearing a skull print T-shirt and faded blue jeans tucked into my calf-high stomper boots. There is a rip on my left knee, and I have pulled the seams on my collar so that it falls off my shoulder. I have wrapped a thick buckled belt loosely around my hips.

  I don’t bother answering her.

  Mum, still in her nightie, wispy greying hair upright where she has slept on it, studies the front page of the newspaper. Not that she can read English. She thinks she can work everything out by looking at the pictures. As a result, she has her own version of world events. Years ago, after seeing his face in the papers every morning she said, ‘It must be a good film that Ronald Reagan has made.’ She didn’t realise he had just been elected president of the United States. I glance over to check out the headline, and see a picture of Reagan sitting at a table between two suited men and looking very worried. The headline reads ‘Tower Report: Reagan Policy Encouraged Hostage Taking’. Good, I think. Maybe they will finally get rid of him. I lean on the table beside Mum and start to read the article, but because it’s killing her that something is more interesting than she is, Via drags it away from us. She makes a big show of it, looks at the paper a long time, traces her fingers down the page like she’s reading, even turns her head to the side like she’s thinking about it. And after all that, what does she have to say?

  ‘Ronald Reagan is still so handsome for his age, don’t you think Sofia?’

  ‘I never liked him,’ says Mum, shaking her head. ‘He’s ugly. What do you think, Mira?’

  I gape at them. ‘He’s the antichrist. He’s going to destroy this entire planet.’

  Via ignores me, continues addressing my mother. ‘He’s better looking than that poor Russian fellow, Gor-boo-giovy. It looks like a bird shat on his head.’ And her belly laugh rocks the table and causes coffee to evacuate the cups.

  ‘At least the Russian is a real man,’ counters Mum. ‘That Reagan fellow looks like he spends a lot of time fixing up his hair. It’s not attractive for a man to be so vain.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ I squawk. ‘These two men are going to start World War Three, and all you can talk about is who is better looking?’

  Via rolls her eyes. ‘What the hell did they teach you at that school, huh? These men aren’t stupid enough to start a war. You think they let any idiot become a president?’

  ‘He’s an actor,’ I say but I know it’s pointless. Via folds the newspaper and pushes it away to let me know she is done talking about it.

  ‘Via,’ says Mum, getting up and taking the sugar bowl from the cupboard. ‘Let me give you some money for petrol.’ She takes out a wad of notes, curling out at the corners like a flower starting to bloom. She slides one over to me, for lunch I suppose, the other she tries to give to Via.

  ‘Not necessary,’ says Via and waves it away.

  ‘I insist,’ says Mum pushing the note into her hand. ‘You drive us everywhere.’ Via takes the money and puts it back into the bowl with the rest of the cash and returns it to the cupboard.

  ‘I don’t need it because I am not taking her.’ Mum looks anxiously at Via but I feel a sudden hope. Perhaps something terrible has happened which is going to prevent me from going to uni today. Could someone have died? Is Via dressed up for the funeral?

  ‘Look at you two,’ she says p
atting each of us on the head. ‘So much worry. But I have a surprise.’ She checks her wristwatch, a move that involves squinting her eyes and holding the watch as far away from her face as her arm will let her. ‘She will be here in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘She?’ say Mum and I together.

  ‘Felicia Ricardo,’ says Via, relishing the way the ‘r’ sound quivers across her tongue.

  ‘That rich lady you clean for?’ I say, not really understanding where this is going.

  ‘No, stupid. Her daughter. She goes to the same university as you. Isn’t that nice? She has a licence.’

  Mum gets up suddenly, driving the table forward. ‘She is coming here? Now?’ She picks up plates, puts them down to wipe crumbs and picks up plates again. ‘But the house! My clothes!’

  ‘Oh don’t be silly, Sofia. You shouldn’t care what other people think.’ She licks a finger then uses it to push back a stray hair then takes the coffee cups Mum is holding and puts them back on the table. ‘She will take us as she finds us!’

  Then, like a scene from The Shining, I look up and there she is. She is standing on the other side of our sliding door: curvy, olive-skinned, a sweep of golden hair secured at the side with a ruffled peach scrunchie matched perfectly to her tailored peach suit. Her arm is bent up to her shoulder, a pair of large dark sunglasses held beside her cheek, and a cerise leather handbag slung over her elbow. Behind her, the rising sun illuminates her blond, cascading river of hair and she seems on fire with light. Via pulls open the door and ushers her in.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Grassi,’ says the stranger in perfect Italian, kissing the air next to Via’s ears. ‘You look so elegant this morning.’

  ‘Oh, I do what I can,’ says Via tilting her head to her shoulder and laughing lightly. She steps aside, waves her in like she’s flipping a letter on Wheel of Fortune. I look at Mum whose complexion is now the same colour as her pink nightgown. Her eyes blink nervously.

  ‘Felicia Ricardo,’ says Via. ‘Let me present my sister, Sofia.’

  At the sight of my mother, Felicia’s expression changes like someone who’s been put in front of a starving child in Africa. This tells me immediately that Via has given her the whole breast cancer sob-story. I groan out loud, but as usual, no one is paying any attention to me. Felicia steps around the table, heels clicking across the floor, and attempts to greet my mum with a kiss, which, due to my mother’s nervousness, ends up being wiped from her nose to her ear.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you Mrs Verdi.’

  Mum bows to her like she is royalty. ‘Sorry,’ she says gesturing to her body, her clothes, the room, our life. Then she seems to sink lower into her nightgown, like she is trying to disappear. Felicia pats Mum on the shoulder, the way you might try and reassure a three-year-old who has wet their pants.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ says Princess bloody Felicia.

  Mum looks anxiously at Via like she isn’t sure she’s understood her properly.

  ‘And this,’ says Via apologetically, ‘is Mirabella.’ She keeps gesturing at me, like Felicia might have trouble locating me in the room. There’s an awkward moment when everyone is staring at me, expecting me to say something I guess. When it’s clear this isn’t going to happen, Felicia coughs nervously then walks over to me, her high heels clicking delicately against the floorboards. I have never met this girl before but I am almost certain she is going to try and hug me so I thrust my arm out for a handshake.

  ‘Great to meet you finally!’ she says, taking my hand as I’d hoped, but then walking straight through it and grabbing me in a flowery-smelling hug. It takes all my control not to shove her away. ‘No need to be so formal. I want us to be friends.’

  ‘Mira is very grateful,’ says Via, fishing in her handbag for her cigarettes. ‘She has no friends. She is sad and mean, like her father.’

  ‘Via!’ says Mum horrified.

  I put my hands on my hips. ‘My sadness and meanness has nothing to do with him. I developed it all by myself.’

  Via shakes her head, slips a cigarette between her lips. ‘Ignore her,’ she says to Felicia then slides a chair out from the table. ‘Sit and have a coffee. We’ll put on a fresh pot for you.’

  ‘Oh don’t go to any trouble for me.’

  ‘No trouble. Mira will make it.’

  Don’t even think about saying yes, I think, glaring at Felicia with an eyebrow crunching scowl.

  ‘Umm, thank you, but we really need to get going.’

  Maybe she’s smarter than she looks.

  ‘Yes!’ says Mum. ‘Look at the time. You’re going to be late!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Verdi,’ says Felicia beaming, as she hooks a thick set of keys from her fashionable purse. ‘I have the Celica.’

  ***

  Mum has put on a dressing-gown, the only one she owns and more suited to midwinter than the scorching heat of the morning. She hugs me tightly and kisses me on the cheeks, wiping sweat across my face. Felicia smiles antiseptically as she unlocks the car door for me. A Toyota Celica, I can’t believe it. How embarrassing. Now everyone’s going to think I’m a yuppie. Why can’t she be driving a Datsun like a normal person? Felicia opens the car door and Via leans in, starts groping the sheepskin seat covers like they might start purring.

  ‘What a lovely car. Was it very expensive?’ says Via, her ballooning bum wagging in the air.

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Grassi. Daddy bought it for me.’

  ‘Really?’ says Via looking meaningfully at Mum. ‘Your father bought you this very nice, expensive car. He must love you very much.’

  ‘Oh yes. We’re very close.’

  Via makes her how-lovely face, which unfortunately looks more like she’s suffering cramps. While they are all distracted, I slip into the passenger seat and put on my seatbelt before anyone can attempt to touch me again. I feel a slight sinking when my butt meets the sheepskin. Felicia finishes dishing out her two-cheek kisses, gets in and winds down her window so she can continue blowing kisses to everyone. I think I am going to be sick.

  Felicia gives me a smile before dropping her glasses over her eyes and backing quickly out of our driveway. I don’t say anything, and thankfully, for now, she seems content with just giving me the occasional beaming smile. This stuff doesn’t impress me, it really doesn’t, but everyone expects it to so it becomes really important to me that she knows I am not impressed with it. The last thing I want is for Felicia to think I am in any way impressed by this flashy stuff she’s so obviously normal with, so I keep my eyes on the road. The plan’s working great until out of the corner of my eye I spot the stereo. Alpine. And I let myself look at it for a second, just a second, but that’s enough. She’s onto me.

  ‘You like music?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I love music. What bands do you like?’

  ‘You probably haven’t heard any of them. They aren’t very popular.’

  ‘Oh I love all music. I’ve got some bands you probably never heard of. I bet no one in this city has heard them.’

  Alpine stereo. Graphic equalizer mounted under the dash. Surely you wouldn’t go to all this trouble for Cyndi Lauper?

  ‘Really?’ I say feeling hopeful, and she smiles, reaches down and pushes a tape into the deck. After a moment the music starts, and she is right. There is no way anyone in this city has ever heard of it. Nor would they want to.

  ‘You listen to Italian music?’

  ‘It’s the latest pop music. It’s what all the kids are listening to in Italy this year. Do you love it?’ She leans into the window, tapping the beat on the car roof. And in contrast with everything else that is perfect and sweet about her, she sings like a toad. For this one dent in her faultlessness I have to smile. She smiles back, and I am temporarily blinded by the whiteness of her abundant teeth.

  ‘You love it, don’t you?’

  ‘Um. Not really,’ I say, because like my mother, I am a terrible liar and would just flash hot red if I tried. As it is, I’m
feeling a little warm.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she says ejecting the tape immediately.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say, feeling more than a bit guilty. ‘I just have unusual taste in music. That’s all.’

  Felicia leans over, taps the glove box and it falls open at my lap. ‘I have other stuff. Take a look.’

  This makes me very nervous. A music collection is like a guidebook to someone’s soul. It’s a pretty big responsibility. Even if I like what I see, there is still the whole thing about the person having shown me their heart and it’s just not something you can shrug off. Once they’ve shown it, you can’t pretend like you haven’t seen it.

  ‘Go on,’ she says and smiles encouragingly.

  That’s how casual she is about it. I squint my eyes, as though that might help to soften the blow of what I’m looking at. My first impression isn’t encouraging. Wham. The Thompson Twins. Huey Lewis and the News. Howard Jones. Oh God, Genesis. I want to slam it shut, but then I notice something a bit different.

  ‘What’s this?’ I say, shocked to find a Cramps album hidden amongst this collection of toxic plastic.

  ‘Oh God, how did that get in there? It’s really bad!’ She throws the tape into the backseat. ‘Hey, how about this one?’ She rummages around the glove box blindly, like her hands can read, and finds the tape she wants. She pops the cover from it one-handed and slides it into the deck. She drops the cover on my lap, looking at me expectantly.