‘Didn’t you notice you were getting burnt?’
‘I was concentrating. On my art, you know.’ I am mortified. How long will this take to fade? Am I going to blister? I look like a strawberry and vanilla ice-cream.
‘I’ve been really worried,’ she says with her hands on her hips and I am expecting a wagging finger next but she restrains herself.
‘I just lost track of time. Sorry.’
She looks at me suspiciously, waiting for me to say more, but I offer nothing. I am expecting her to start nagging me for more information, but she just shakes her head and gets into the car. I suppress a laugh. If she thinks sulking is going to get me to start spilling my guts then she has really underestimated me! I take my time getting in, pushing my backpack into the floor well and shaking my sandy boots before dragging them in after me. I lean away from her and stare out of the window, but it’s impossible not to see that she is constantly looking at me, waiting for me to say something. I stay firm, pretending I don’t notice, so then she starts clearing her throat. She scratches at her head, then looks at me again. I am a wall. She begins to hum an unidentifiable tune, and then looks at me again. It’s hard and it feels unnatural, but I keep my eyes on the road, focus on passing trees and bus stops. Finally, she reaches past me to the glove box, hits the button hard so that it drops open with a clank of rattling cassettes. Still ignoring her, I listen to her flick through until she finds what she is looking for. There’s a click as the tape engages, then a whirr of the heads turning. Seconds later, I am assaulted by the hideous aberration which is Italian pop music.
‘All right, all right!’ I say, slamming the stop button. ‘I was with a boy, okay? Now can we please listen to some real music?’
Felicia smiles in a jaw-hanging-open kind of way. She begins to laugh and I try to hide my embarrassment by flicking through the tapes, but I am not really looking at them. ‘Way to go, Mira!’
I stare at her in irritation.
‘Oh come on,’ she says pushing my hand away from the glove box and fishing out a Joy Division cassette. She puts it in and hits play. ‘You made me wait for an hour. The least you can do is tell me something!’
I scrunch my face up in disgust. The idea of talking about my feelings with anyone, let alone Princess Felicia, makes me feel constipated. ‘There’s not much to tell.’
She looks at me with annoyance, reaches back for the Italian pop music, but I stop her hand before she gets to it.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Where did you meet him?’
Groan. ‘He’s in one of my classes.’
‘And what’s his name,’ she says, developing a little singsong girlishness in her voice.
‘Harm,’ I say, keeping my own voice as straight as possible.
‘That’s a name?’
‘Hamish. He gets called Harm.’
Thankfully, she decides to let it go. ‘And what does he look like?’
‘Oh come on! He looks boy like.’
She laughs. ‘Okay. One more and I’ll let you off the hook for today.’ She leans towards me while keeping her eyes on the road. ‘Did you kiss him?’
I rub my eyes which are beginning to feel a little dry and stingy from too long in the sun. ‘No, Felicia. We just hung out.’
She makes a sad face. ‘Oh well. Maybe next time?’
‘I don’t think there’s going to be a next time.’
‘Why?’ she says raising an eyebrow at me. ‘Because the world is going to blow up?’
‘Very funny,’ I say shifting in my seat so I can look out the window and hide my face. ‘I don’t know. It’s just not like that.’
Truthfully, I am still trying to work out why Harm left without saying anything. We were having such a good time, surely it’s not too much to expect him to say goodbye, or even leave me a note? Waking up alone has left me feeling abandoned, and I am looking forward to just getting back to my room and locking myself in for a few hours so I can reflect back on everything and try to work out what went wrong.
‘Well,’ she says leaning back into her seat and getting on with the business of driving. ‘That turned out to be a disappointing story.’
‘Gee. Sorry my life isn’t entertaining enough for you.’
‘I did expect more from you. You’ve got a bad reputation, remember?’ she says. ‘Never mind, there’s always next time. Hopefully you can do something to restore my faith in your badness.’
When we arrive home Mum is standing on the driveway waiting for us. She smiles broadly as we pull in, but her hand goes up to her chest and stays there and I know she’s been worrying about me.
‘Where have you been?’ she cries as she opens my door. She takes my backpack then grasps both my hands to pull me out of the car. She starts patting me up and down like she is checking for wounds.
‘I just had some work to finish,’ I say.
‘We were at the library, Mrs Verdi,’ says Felicia, leaning across to the passenger seat so she can speak to Mum. ‘We got a bit carried away with studying.’ And she follows this with a wink which, thankfully, Mum misses.
Then Mum notices my face. ‘What happened to you?’
‘It’s okay. I got a bit sunburnt, that’s all.’ I think she is going to cry now, but she manages to hold herself together, promises to find me creams, aspirin, laxatives: whatever is in the medicine cabinet. After a few more pats and hugs to make sure I’m really okay, we wave goodbye to Felicia and go inside.
Having missed lunch I am extremely happy to see the snack she has laid out for my return. A selection of cold meats and cheeses, with a crusty loaf of bread, a bowl of olives and a jar of artichoke hearts. I rip off a fat chunk of bread and dip it into the oil from the artichokes. I shove it into my mouth and the oil drips down my hand. I am aware of grunting like a cow as I chew but I don’t care and Mum just looks happy, as always, to see me eating. She looks at me from across the table, head resting in her hands, enchanted.
‘All that learning is making you hungry,’ she says, cutting another slice of bread for me. She reaches over and plays with my hair. ‘Did you have a good day?’
‘Uh-huh,’ I say, trying not to spit crumbs out of my mouth.
‘I miss not having you at home.’
I smile. I miss being at home too. ‘I can always quit.’
She opens her eyes wide. ‘Don’t even think about it! I’d rather miss you then see you wasting your opportunities. You’re so lucky. I wish I could have gone to school.’
‘You just say that because you’ve never been. If you went you’d hate it like the rest of us.’
She gives me her I’m-going-to-smack-you look, but thankfully, doesn’t. ‘I went to school, Mira. I can read and write. The nuns wanted me to stay, you know. They told my mother I could be a teacher too.’
‘Really? You never told me that before. So why didn’t you stay?’
‘There was no money. I had to work. That’s how things were in those days. Tell me about your school,’ she says, head in hands, face dreamy.
‘What do you want to know?’ I say, getting tense.
‘Have you made any friends?’
‘I suppose,’ I say, thinking immediately of Harm, but not sure if I can place him in this category yet.
‘Yes,’ says Mum. ‘I like her.’
‘Felicia?’
‘She reminds me of you.’
‘What? That’s crazy, we’re nothing alike!’
‘Of course you are. She is smart like you. She has a good heart.’
‘There’s a lot more that’s different.’
‘Maybe. But those are the important things. It’s what’s on the inside that counts, Mira. I’m happy that you have found a good friend. You’re a good girl and you deserve it.’
‘That’s not what you said yesterday.’
‘Yesterday you were a pain. Today, you are all right,’ she says with a smile. ‘I am proud of you.’
God. She’s always saying this corny stuff.
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‘Why are you rolling your eyes at me?’
‘Because it sounds like you’re reading straight from a parenting manual. It sounds stupid.’
‘To you everything is stupid.’
‘Well that’s because it is.’
‘Well that means you’re stupid then.’
‘No, everything except me is stupid.’
‘And me?’
‘Everything except me and you, okay?’
She pulls me across the table so that my chest drags against the crumbs and oil and she holds me for what feels like forever. All I can think about is eating another artichoke heart but I know better than to interrupt her when she is in the middle of a sentimental moment. When she’s finally done adoring me, she pushes me away again, waves her hands as if to dispel the nonsense.
‘Enough. I can’t sit around talking all day. I have to make dinner.’ I watch her head purposefully into the kitchen.
She hums to herself as she glides from cupboard to sink to stove, pulling things from the fridge and chopping and mixing in a happy kind of dance that I have spent my whole life watching.
‘What are we having?’ I shout over to her.
‘Pasta,’ she says, and I groan.
Absorbed in her work, she doesn’t notice. I take my backpack, head to my room. The curtains have been drawn against the afternoon sun, and my room is cool and dark. I switch on the radio and turn the dial until I find a half-way decent song, which turns out to be ‘In Between Days’ by The Cure. Humming to myself, I lie back on my bed, to reflect on my day. Firstly, though it seems like a year ago now, I remember those last few hours with Harm. There are flashes of laughter, of talking, of hand holding, which makes me want to smile. But ultimately, all that really stands out is waking up alone. Next I think about the library with Felicia, and I start to relive the dreadful feeling of falling behind in my studies. I sit up then drag my backpack up on the bed with me; think about what my mum said about lost opportunities and about how she wanted to go to school and couldn’t. I think about how proud she looks every time I get out of that damned car, and about how she always has food waiting for me and asks nothing from me except that I just keep going.
I rip open the bag, determined to start taking my studies more seriously, but instead of scrunched up paper, my bag is packed with leaves and twigs. Shocked, I take out a large handful and scatter them across my bedspread. I stare in awe as an upturned beetle kicks out his legs to flip himself over then scurries under a nearby leaf. I reach in again, letting my fingers comb through the leafy debris that has magically made its way into my backpack. Then my fingers find a piece of paper and I pull it out to look at it. It’s folded neatly, not like anything I have ever shoved into my bag. I open it slowly. In large letters, written in smoky black eyeliner, is Harm’s name and phone number. Under this, there’s a peace symbol.
I just stare at it, smiling stupidly.
I stare and smile all the way to dinnertime.
At the table I accept and eat my bowl of pasta without complaint and delight my mother by going for a second. I am so happy and pleasant that even my father smiles at me and stays at the table so long that he misses the nightly news. That night, we all go to bed with big fat smiles on our faces. In my room I lie awake in the dark, radio stirring with some fantastic new music. I roll over onto my front, pull the pillow down to my chest and hug it close. I notice my nuclear survival map poking out from under the bed, and remember that I had planned to finish plotting the major rivers. Reaching down, I slide it away, out of sight, and for the first time in years, instead of dreading tomorrow, I start to look forward to it.
Chapter 5
Today is Mum’s birthday party, the one that Via demanded, and the one that she is now enjoying as Mum slaves in the kitchen preparing all of Via’s favourite dishes. At least Mum is not alone this year; Siena is in the kitchen helping her. I am here too, but mainly to escape the madness of the party happening outside. Mum is clanging dishes and talking to herself about what needs to be done, and Siena is following her from job to job doing her best to interpret and help.
‘I should use the long dish for the ravioli. The one with the blue flowers,’ says Mum, and before Siena can help Mum has her head deep in the cupboard looking for it. ‘The water is hot enough now, we can put the ravioli in one at a time so they don’t stick,’ she says, and again, before Siena has a chance to intervene, Mum is already standing by the stove, plate of ravioli in hand and dropping them into the pot.
‘The sauce is bubbling,’ I say and Siena barely has time to turn around before Mum is at the pot and stirring to stop the sauce from sticking.
‘Sofia,’ says Siena slapping her arms down by her sides. ‘There must be something I can help you with.’
‘All under control,’ she says smiling then suddenly she remembers something. ‘Oh my God! I forgot about the lobster!’ And before Siena can find an oven mitt, Mum is squatting before the oven door. There’s a balloon of steam, then the smell of baking cheese. She puts her unprotected hand into the hot oven, starts tugging at the orange tails to shuffle pieces into better positions.
‘Isn’t that hot?’ says Siena.
‘Oh, I’m used to it,’ says Mum, smiling over her shoulder.
‘You must have hands of steel.’
She shakes her head sadly. ‘Soft now. When I was working in the restaurant, I could pick up trays straight from the oven and carry them to the other side of the room.’
‘She’s not exaggerating,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen it.’
Mum grunts and rubs at her back.
‘You are working too hard,’ says Siena. ‘You need to rest.’
‘Plenty of time to rest after the party.’
‘All this work. It’s too much for you.’
‘This?’ laughs Mum gesturing to her collection of boiling pots, half chopped herbs and stacks of dirty dishes. ‘At the restaurant I served two hundred people a night. That was before, you know...’
But she leaves off the rest of the sentence because she doesn’t like to use the ‘c’ word.
‘It may as well be two hundred people for lunch the way they’re eating out there,’ I say pointing through the window.
‘Have they started on each other yet?’ says Siena getting up on her toes to look out as well.
‘I think they still have enough food, but we better hurry.’
‘Cooked?’ says Mum, walking towards us, holding up some steaming ravioli on a wooden spoon.
She offers it to Siena first who backs away from it like it might bite. Siena’s thin arms cross in front of her like a pair of tangled coathangers. Even after weeks of living with Via she does not seem to have acquired any bulk, and in fact, is possibly even skinnier.
‘You try it, Mira,’ says Siena deflecting the spoon to me. ‘You know better how everyone likes it. I’m a bit out of touch with the family’s tastes.’
‘Careful, it’s hot,’ says Mum, as she drops it into my mouth and I jump up and down, flap my hands in front of my face and pant.
‘Well?’ she says ignoring my protests of pain.
‘Another two minutes,’ and though this is just what I always say, for some reason I am always right.
Mum nods, satisfied with my response, and she gets the colander ready to drain the pasta. Outside, things have gotten rowdy. There’s some noisy giggling and clunking of glasses before I hear my father and Via break out into some stupid Italian song. I look out the window and laugh as I see Via twisting and snaking around the table. Dad is leaning on the back of his chair with one hand, holding a beer can high in the other and swaying with the song. Uncle Zito sits quietly watching, his face all grin and moustache, while his son Franco has his thumbs in his ears, burning cigarette held as far from his curly hair as his fingers can manage. He grimaces each time he is forced to remove a thumb so he can take another drag. My cousin Rosa and her husband Gino are busy trying to wipe cheesy pizza sauce from their children’s faces. But the kids are more
interested in trying to catch Via as she shuffles about the table in her crazy dance. Mum carries the steaming pot of ravioli over to the sink where I am standing and pours it into the colander. Hot steam fogs up the window, but just before the scene disappears I catch Via waving at me and wiggling her hips for my entertainment.
‘She loves you like her own daughter,’ says Mum wiping a clear viewing spot into the fogged window.
‘Then she doesn’t love Rosa very much.’
‘Don’t be stupid. Via loves you. She’s only tough on the ones she loves, you understand? I don’t know what we would have done without her,’ says Mum, as she blows a kiss out to her sister. ‘She helped me every day during my...’ and she trails off again as I realise that ‘treatment’ is another word she is not fond of.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Siena and we both turn around to see her standing behind us with tears in her eyes.
‘What for?’ says Mum.
‘I should have been here too.’
Mum takes her sister’s face firmly between her two palms. ‘You had your own problems,’ she says emphasising each word with a gentle shake of Siena’s head.
Siena places her hands over my mother’s and tries to smile, though it’s hard to do this while her cheeks are being held together. It ends up looking like a sloppy pout.
‘All that matters is that we are together now, and that the thing, you know, is behind us,’ says Mum, then gives both cheeks a final squeeze before returning to stir the bubbling sauce on the stove.
Outside, the table erupts in another tune and Mum starts humming along. Siena smiles to herself as she wipes down counters. She makes some discreet swipes at her leaking eyes and Mum and I pretend not to notice.
Then the phone rings.
The shock sends Mum’s wooden spoon flying to the ceiling. She looks from me to the phone like we are opponents in a tennis rally.
‘The phone!’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘But who could it be?’
The Mimosa Tree Page 8