The Mimosa Tree

by Antonella Preto

  Smirking, Via steps aside to reveal Mum’s handbag sitting on the driveway about a metre away. She invites my mother to lean over and pick it up. Mum folds her arms and looks away with a huff. Snickering, Via picks it up, throws it into Mum’s lap then slams the door shut. She sucks her cigarette alight as she squeezes herself behind the wheel. Her seat bulges back and grazes at my knees.

  ‘One thing for sure,’ says Via as she reverses down the driveway. ‘That bone cancer isn’t affecting your skull. Your head is as hard as ever.’

  And, like a bomb has detonated in her mouth, she laughs through her cigarette and blasts us in a cloud of smoke.

  ***

  In the radiology clinic, I watch as they lay my mother on a padded metal slab and prepare to zap her with radiation. Mum has a war going on in her body, and this machine is about to nuke the shit out of the bad guys. They have drawn blue lines on her that mark the target area, but like any war it won’t be just the bad guys that get hurt. The attacks will destroy healthy cells along with the cancer cells and I know from the last time that this will leave her feeling sore and sick.

  Every war has innocent casualties.

  Mum stares upwards, her lips drawn down at the sides and her jaw clenched. Her hands are knotted together across her belly and the radiographer takes them and places them to her side. She turns her head to look at him, panicking as he speaks to her. Siena acts quickly to interpret, explaining what he wants her to do, soothing her with long, soft strokes to her arms.

  ‘Keep still,’ she says to my mother who, careful to do exactly what she is told, blinks her eyes instead of nodding.

  When he is ready to start the machine we are asked to leave. As we enter the waiting room, Via, who is smoking in the outside courtyard, knocks loudly against the glass window to get our attention. She is leaning forward with her hand shielding her eyes and nose slightly bent against the window. Behind her is a dead palm tree and from where I am sitting the brown fronds look like a pair of very sad wings.

  ‘Everything okay?’ she shouts and everyone in the waiting room turns to look at her.

  ‘Yes,’ says Siena nodding but speaking at a normal volume which Via cannot hear. ‘You are a complete idiot.’

  Via smiles and gives us a thumbs-up. She draws another cigarette from her handbag and puffs away. Siena and I sit down and the lady beside us smiles welcomingly. You can tell she is a cancer patient because she is wearing a scarf to hide her hair loss and she is so thin she looks two-dimensional. It occurs to me that if you put a scarf on Siena you could easily mistake her for being a patient here too.

  ‘You want one of these magazines, Siena?’ I say, dangling a selection of them like a limp, glossy fan. She chooses Everyday Gourmet, a food magazine that, as far as I can tell, features very large pictures of tiny serves of food. I keep Womanly for myself and begin to flick through pages of models and celebrities that never fail to make me feel inadequate. I close the magazine and throw it to the table in disgust.

  ‘Vapid women with sticky-out ribs and big breasts,’ I say when Siena looks at me questioningly. ‘I think women look better when they have a bit of flesh on them, don’t you reckon?’

  She smiles and goes back to studying her recipes, and I wonder if she has been trying to live on those button-sized portions they show in that magazine. That would certainly explain why she is wasting away.

  Via enters the waiting room smelling of smoke, her rubber-soled sandals smacking heavily against the polished concrete floor. Looking very angry, she holds up a packet of cigarettes before crushing it in her fist then throwing it into a wicker basket in the corner. ‘They don’t sell cigarettes here and I’ve run out.’

  Siena throws her head back and rubs her forehead like she’s getting a headache. ‘That’s a toy box,’ she says pointing to the cigarette packet that’s now sitting in the arms of an eyeless teddy bear. ‘And you do realise you are in a hospital? A cancer hospital?’

  Via collapses onto the seat next to Siena, causing several people at the far end of the row to jump in the air. An old lady holds onto her wig. ‘Look,’ she says handing Siena a folded newspaper page. ‘I found this.’

  Via points to the article she wants us to read. The headline reads ‘Our Lady of Rock Quarry Lake’. There’s a photo of a man taking a bite out of a cream-filled lamington, as someone pours water over his head from an old pickle jar. In the background people are crowding to fill jars and buckets with the water from the lake. I scan through the article and work out pretty quickly what it’s about. Apparently a vision of the Virgin Mary led this guy to the abandoned limestone quarry and asked him to drink the water. Then, whammo! His diabetes was cured. Now hundreds are travelling to the lake seeking their own cures.

  ‘We can take Sofia,’ says Via.

  ‘Stop joking around, Via.’

  ‘I’m not joking. People are being cured.’

  ‘ That is where people are being cured,’ says Siena pointing back to the room where Mum is currently being made radioactive. ‘Sofia needs proper medical attention. She needs doctors and she needs these machines. She doesn’t need you driving her out to the middle of woop-woop to drink a jar of cryptosporidium.’

  Via eyes her sister irately. ‘Crypto spor-a what? What the hell are you talking about?’ she says and whips the newspaper from Siena’s hands. ‘I don’t expect someone like you to understand these things,’ says Via dismissing Siena with a flick of her wrist.

  ‘Someone like me?’ says Siena, her voice crackling like static.

  ‘Let’s face it,’ says Via, picking up a nearby magazine and flicking calmly through the pages. ‘You fell from grace a long time ago.’ And she makes the sign of the cross to protect herself from her sister’s heathen ways.

  ‘Oh and you’re such a good Catholic, are you? Tell me, when was the last time you went to church?’

  Via puts down her magazine, straightens her finger at Siena. ‘I go all the time. Every Easter and every Christmas. And don’t forget all the funerals!’

  Siena sits up straight and puts her hands on her hips. It’s like a plucked chicken trying to look threatening. She opens her mouth to say something devastatingly cutting, I am sure, but the door to the radiology room clicks open and a nurse comes out pushing Mum in a wheelchair.

  ‘Here she is!’ he says in a sing-songy way that manages to turn the word ‘is’ into two, very drawn-out syllables. He wrinkles up his nose and smiles as he leans over to speak to Mum in the kind of raised, slow voice often used for stupid people. ‘Now you might feel a teeny bit sore, Mrs Vur-die, but that’s totally normal. If it gets bad just give me a holler and I can pop back with some nice pills for you, all right?’

  Mum opens her eyes wide and nods, which says she either hasn’t understood a word or she is just freaked out by how close he is to her face.

  ‘Oh, isn’t she gorgeous,’ says the nurse giving her a little pat on the head before turning on his toes and disappearing back through the door.

  ‘You look better already,’ says Via, helping Mum to her feet.

  ‘Give her a second. Can’t you see she is in pain?’ Siena says, rushing to Mum’s side.

  ‘No pain. I just feel a bit sick,’ says Mum.

  ‘We can wait,’ says Siena.

  But Mum shakes her head and looks frightened. ‘Get me out of here.’

  ‘You take her out the front and we will get the car,’ says Via. I want to stay with Mum but before I can say anything Via has pulled me out of my chair and is dragging me out the doors, and I know better than to protest.

  On our way out we pass a young girl and her mother. The mother is in a wheelchair and has lost all the hair on one side of her head. I also notice that her chest is very flat and I guess she must have had a mastectomy. The thing that fascinates me is that the daughter is snuffling and weeping openly, while the mother just looks calm and distant. Surely, I think to myself, it’s the dying person that should be crying?

  ‘She’s a bit touchy, your au
nty,’ says Via, taking my hand. ‘She doesn’t believe in God anymore, and she feels guilty about it.’

  ‘I don’t believe in God either.’

  ‘Don’t say things like that! You want to go to hell?’

  ‘Couldn’t be much worse than where we are now.’

  ‘Mirabella Verdi. If your grandmother could hear you she would turn in her grave. She was a very religious woman, you know. We all are.’ And she looks up to our hovering god and mutters a little prayer.

  We get in the car and drive up to meet Mum and Siena. This time Mum willingly accepts help to get into the car. When we are all in and strapped up, Via throws open the glove box and pulls out a fresh packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Like a boy scout,’ she says sucking one alight. ‘Always prepared.’

  ‘How long do I have to do this for?’ asks Mum, holding onto the car roof and still looking like she might throw up any minute.

  ‘Every day for five weeks,’ says Siena. ‘I am sorry, Sofia.’

  ‘Did you see that girl?’ I say as I remember the mother and daughter that came in. ‘That was really sad.’

  Via clicks her tongue disapprovingly. ‘What a crybaby.’

  ‘I don’t think she would be crying about nothing,’ I say, feeling strongly about sticking up for her even though I don’t know her. ‘Her mother must be really sick.’

  ‘What good does it do to cry like that? You think this is going to make her mother happy? Or better? Some people just don’t know how to be strong.’ And she gives me a stern look through the rear-view mirror.

  ‘You’ll be home soon,’ says Siena, patting Mum’s shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ says Via as she turns into a nearby shopping centre. ‘Right after we get some shopping done.’

  ‘Can’t it wait, Via? I think Sofia should go home and rest.’

  ‘Rest? She’s been lying down all morning, isn’t that right, Sofia?’

  ‘I need to buy some cheese,’ says Mum, nodding.

  ‘You can’t park here,’ I say as Via pulls into a disabled parking bay right out front of the shopping centre entrance. ‘It’s for disabled people!’

  Via thinks about this before opening her door. ‘I’m too fat,’ she says. ‘Siena is too skinny. Your mum has cancer and you are just stupid. I think we got enough.’

  I scramble to get out of the car quickly before someone sees us, but Via blocks my way. ‘No you don’t. You wait with the car.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Here,’ she says throwing the car keys at me. ‘Move the car if a cripple needs the space.’

  ‘I can’t drive!’

  ‘You go to university. Work it out.’

  She pushes the seat back and closes the door, and they leave me alone to wonder about the mysteries of car pedals, gears and what kind of explanation I can give to the irate disabled person who is going to abuse me for being in their parking spot. I spend a tense hour, hanging my head out of the window to keep a lookout and I am greatly relieved when I finally see them coming back. Mum is between her sisters hanging on to each of them for support and while I am probably minutes away from a full-blown panic attack, they walk and laugh casually like they are on a holiday. They pile their shopping bags around me, but Mum keeps one bag clutched to her chest.

  ‘What’s that?’ I say.

  ‘None of your business,’ says Via.

  I poke my tongue out at the rear-view mirror so that she can see me.

  When we get home, Mum is exhausted and though she makes a fuss she is finally convinced to lie down. Her head barely hits the pillow before Via begins a whirlwind cleaning frenzy of the house.

  Siena returns from the bedroom looking worried. ‘I think that was too much for her.’

  ‘She loves shopping,’ says Via.

  ‘That’s not the point. She needs rest.’

  ‘She’s resting now.’

  ‘But she is exhausted.’

  ‘So start cleaning,’ says Via, looking up from her dusting. ‘Unless you want her to do it herself when she wakes up?’

  ‘I’ll go clean the bathroom,’ says Siena shaking her head and walking away.

  ‘What can I do?’ I say and slurp the remains of my Coke.

  ‘Go to your room.’

  ‘How is that going to help?’

  ‘It helps because your mother will think you are studying, and this makes her happy. Go,’ she says.

  And when I hesitate she chases me away to my room.

  ***

  I take out the survival map, thinking that this time I may see something different from the last, but the cluster of circles that represent possible targets resemble something that may have been drawn by my spirograph toy. I see again what I’ve been trying to ignore for weeks now; there is no safe place. I think again about redoing my map and just focusing on the primary targets, but somehow this feels like cheating. Just because a town has a lower chance of being hit does not mean it is safe. I have seen the truth now, and rubbing one of those circles off my map is not going to rub it from my mind. Outside my room the sound of the vacuum cleaner muffles the sounds of Via and Siena bickering. I can see them clearly in my mind, imagine the way they exchange glares and hand gestures as they work together to rid my home of filth. Sometimes I envy the way they can be so immersed in everyday life, the way they seem to concentrate on only what happens between the walls of this house. For them walls are solid. They believe in a wall’s ability to keep them safe from harm. But my vision extends beyond the walls. My walls are like flimsy curtains and I see right through them to the skies that will one day reveal the truth about the fleeting nature of our lives.

  I pull the shade down and crawl under my frilly pink bedspread. I squeeze my eyes closed, but I can’t seem to stop the visions that flash through my mind, of the day the bombs finally drop. I see a blazing whiteness and people disintegrating to ash. I see rampant firestorms and billowing clouds of black ash, smoke and dust. I hear millions of people crying, screaming and dying. It could happen tomorrow. It could happen right now. I shudder as I realise how completely unprepared I am. I roll onto my stomach and bury my head under the pillow. I should get up now, start packing some supplies, start figuring out where the safe place is, but my body feels whacked and my mind just wants to sleep. I decide not to resist. Let the bombs drop. Let them drop right over me. There are worse things that dying in your sleep.

  I am ashamed to say that I have to be woken at dinnertime. Thinking that I have simply tired myself out studying, Mum is not at all disappointed. She is in a good mood and eager to see me fill up on Aunt Via’s chicken cacciatore. She piles food on my plate while taking only a small portion for herself, which tells me the nausea is still bothering her.

  ‘This is really good,’ says Dad who never mentions anything about the food Mum serves up every night.

  ‘Yours is better,’ I say quickly, but it doesn’t matter. Dad has managed to kill her mood. He munches away, studies his plate like he’s going to kiss it, oblivious to what he’s done.

  ‘All this fuss,’ says Mum pushing an olive around her plate. ‘I’m not so sick that I can’t cook dinner for my family.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ says Dad. ‘I wish someone would come and do my jobs for me.’

  Mum pushes her chair back from the table and storms into the kitchen. I give Dad a dirty look but he just looks at me like he’s wondering what I am staring at. He tears a piece of bread and uses it to mop up the sauce on his plate. After a loud burp he pushes his plate away. I am still staring at him.

  ‘What the hell are you looking at?’ he says spitting breadcrumbs everywhere. ‘Get up and help your mother with the dishes.’ And he picks up his beer can and goes to the TV mumbling something about how all women are stupid.

  In the kitchen Mum is scrubbing furiously at a plate that looks like it might have reached clean about five minutes ago.

  ‘He’s an idiot,’ I say, jumping up to sit beside the sink.

  ‘Don’t talk about
your father that way, Mira.’

  I sigh, tired of this game we keep playing. ‘It’s nothing you haven’t said.’

  ‘That’s different,’ she says jabbing a soapy finger at me. ‘He’s my husband.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I say throwing up my hands and walking away. ‘You guys have fun getting all lovey-dovey. I’m out of here.’

  I go outside and lie down on the lawn. It doesn’t take long before I hear the familiar sounds of Mum and Dad arguing. I cover my ears and concentrate on looking for satellites. I found my first satellite a few years ago and I’ve been finding them ever since. Satellites look like moving stars and you can usually see at least three on any given night. When you first start looking, concentrating on all those bright little dots to see which one’s moving, it can look like they are all wobbling around. But I know that when I finally spot a satellite there will be no mistaking it. Clear and steady, a satellite moves quickly and in a straight line, and as it gets closer to the horizon it gets fainter and fainter until it just disappears.

  I always wonder if I am looking at a military satellite. Perhaps I will be watching one day when that particular satellite sends the signal that launches a missile. There are different theories about how long a nuclear war would actually last. With satellite technology and computerised systems, I imagine the whole thing could be over in just a few days. As it is, it would only take half of the world’s amassed nuclear weapons to destroy the planet. I close my eyes and shudder as once again I begin to imagine the end of my pointless life on this planet.

  ‘Mira,’ I hear Mum say and I jump almost high enough to catch a ride on one of those damned satellites. I haven’t been paying attention and don’t know whether they are still in the middle of a fight or if it’s over. I sit up and look nervously over her shoulder expecting Dad to come out too. I notice Mum is clutching the secret shopping bag from today and start to think it may be something for me.

  ‘Do you want a chair?’ I say. She nods and I run to get her one from the veranda. I help her sit down then kneel beside her and lay my head on her lap. She puts the bag on the ground right in front of me without saying anything, and I am positive now that it is for me. I don’t say anything either, happy to keep the game going for as long as she wants to.