The Mimosa Tree

by Antonella Preto

  ‘I’m really sorry about your mother dying.’

  ‘I’m really sorry too,’ I say, and I feel the tears start to fall. Harm wipes them gently from my face. He holds me tighter.

  ‘Good night, Mirabella.’

  ‘Good night, Hamish,’ I say, and we fall asleep under a blanket of moonlight and jasmine.

  Chapter 15

  I wake up to the sights and sounds of an unfamiliar house. Harm sleeps silently beside me, and I realise that it’s the first time I have known someone who sleeps without some kind of snorting or wheezing. His face is smooth and relaxed, blond hair falls across his eyes and his thin chest rises and falls against his white shirt. I lie quietly and listen to the unfamiliar noises, note the strange smells and how the light plays against the dusty air. I am not sure what I am supposed to do. I have forgotten most of my routine and what I can remember doesn’t seem relevant. In the daylight, this spacious, bare room has the ambience of an empty theatre stage. The space feels full of possibilities; any number of scenes could be played out right now, only I am not watching, I’m on the stage. And I’ve got stage fright. I lie still, resisting the need to get up and stretch, waiting for Harm to wake and show me what to do next.

  There is a knock at the door.

  Oh my God. My hands grip tightly to the sheets as I hold my breath and wait to see if there is another knock.

  And there is.

  How have they found me so easily? Did I leave the invite lying around? Have they traced my phone calls? Has Via followed my scent? As I lie there in terror, contemplating jumping out the window rather than being humiliated by my aunt’s ear pulling and head slapping, Harm begins to rouse.

  ‘What time is it?’ he says drowsily, as once again, and firmer this time, a knock echoes down the long hallway to our room.

  ‘Quick, you have to hide.’

  ‘That won’t get rid of them,’ he says, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say putting my boots on. ‘I’ll go out the window. Just tell them you never saw me.’

  Harm opens one eye to look at me. ‘Is it all parents that freak you out or just mine?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know I’ve told you they are lousy parents, but I don’t think you’re in any danger.’

  ‘That’s your parents at the door?’

  ‘Pretty sure. They usually come around this time on a Sunday to tell me what a loser I am. It’s our version of a family day.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ I say, and now I am in a panic. ‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. What are they going to think of me?’

  Harm laughs as he goes over to his clothes pile and finds a pair of jeans.

  ‘Relax, Mira. Nothing happened between us. And even if it did my parents wouldn’t care. But I have to warn you, you could be a Nobel Prize winner and just by association they are not going to think much of you. I’M COMING!’ he shouts as the knocking continues.

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Whatever you want,’ he says then disappears through the door.

  I finish putting on my boots, try to check my reflection only to realise there are no mirrors in this room. I try the window but my reflection is no more than a hazy shadow through which I can see some birds jumping around in a tree. When I notice a beanie lying on top of Harm’s dirty clothes pile I grab it and shove it over my unkempt hair. It smells like old sock. When I raise my arms to rip it off I realise my armpits smell worse. I look around desperately for some deodorant but all I find is toothpaste. As I contemplate smearing this into my armpits, I hear the door open and the sound of unfamiliar older voices.

  ‘You want to come in?’ says Harm.

  ‘Into that filth?’ says a woman’s voice.

  ‘How could you think it’s proper to ask your mother into a place like this? Don’t you have any respect?’ says a man’s voice.

  ‘Suit yourselves,’ says Harm, and I hear him light up a cigarette and then he starts coughing and wheezing.

  ‘I always suspected you were stupid,’ says his father. ‘But now you’re proving it. You have asthma, remember?’

  ‘I find smoking gives me more incentive to keep breathing.’

  ‘Your friends might think you’re clever and funny, Hamish, but I know you better. You’re just a sad boy who would do anything for attention.’

  ‘Strange how it hasn’t worked on you two though. So, is there a point to you coming here,’ says Harm so calmly I am shocked. ‘Or did you just wake up and decide you needed to offload on someone?’

  ‘Not that you care, but we thought we should let you know we are leaving.’

  ‘Forever?’

  ‘Son, we’d be as happy to be rid of you as you’d be of us, but unfortunately, it’s only for a month.’

  ‘It means we will miss your birthday, Hamish,’ says his mother. ‘So I wanted to give you this. We won’t be back for Christmas either, so I’ve put in a bit extra.’

  ‘Wow. Just what I’ve always wanted, an envelope full of money. How did you guys know?’

  ‘It’s more than you deserve,’ says his father. ‘If it were up to me I’d leave you to suffer the consequences of your choices, but your mother here feels some sort of maternal pull not to let you starve. Not that you’ll spend it on food, right?’

  ‘I think I’ll use it to buy some love.’

  ‘Don’t start that crap, Hamish. I’m sick of your “my parents didn’t love me” sob-stories. It might work with your girlfriends but it doesn’t soften me up at all.’

  ‘Will you come to church with us, Hamish?’ says his mother.

  ‘I don’t think so, Mummy. But you two enjoy your praying and judging and damning and whatever else it is that you do at that charming little church of yours.’

  ‘I’m going to pray for you, Hamish,’ says his father. ‘If we can’t save you, perhaps the Lord can.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he says and I hear the door slam.

  When I don’t hear him walking back I start wondering if I should go to him. I am in awe of how controlled he sounded through that entire ordeal. I would have started screaming at hello, and there would have been at least a couple of door slams and some foot stomping within the first thirty seconds. Before I can decide what to do, I hear him walking back. I try not to stare when he enters the room, but from what I can see there are no signs of snot or tears. He smiles as though nothing has happened and throws a weighted envelope onto the bed. He sits down next to me.

  ‘I suppose you heard all that?’ he says, reaching between the wall and mattress and pulling out a bag of pot. He leans across and picks up an empty fruit juice bottle. The bottle has some water in it, and a spout thing stuck in the side. He pushes pot into the spout and smokes the bottle like a pipe. The room fills with smoke and the sound of bubbling. When he’s finished one, he packs it again and smokes another before handing it to me. I look at him stupidly.

  ‘Haven’t you seen a bong before?’

  ‘I don’t even know what a bong is,’ I say taking it from him.

  ‘It’s a water pipe. You use a lot less pot when you smoke it this way and you get a better high.’

  He holds the lighter for me as I inhale. The smoke is harsh and hot and I start to cough and heave almost immediately.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Mira,’ he says snatching the bong away from me so quickly that the smelly water splashes all over the bed. ‘I won’t bother giving you any if you’re going to waste it like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, still having trouble speaking through my burnt throat. ‘I wasn’t expecting it to be so harsh.’

  ‘This isn’t some run-away-from-home game for me, I have to survive out here. Drugs are expensive and I have bills to pay.’

  ‘I can give you some money,’ I say quietly now, not used to being yelled at by someone other than my family. I lean back and put my hand in my pocket. Harm watches me angrily but once I try to hand him the cash he shakes his head sadly and pushes it back towards me.

  ‘I’m s
orry,’ he says, putting his head into his hands. ‘I don’t need your money. I’m sorry.’ And he starts rocking back and forth. I am so dumb that it takes me a while to work out it’s his parents and not my pathetic attempt at smoking that have made him this upset. I put my hand on his shoulder, worried that he will push me away, but he accepts it, and I hold it there and I pat him until he is ready to speak. I don’t think Harm was right about wasting the pot by coughing either, because as he is rocking I start to feel myself getting very stoned. Finally, he stops and looks up at me. He looks distressed, disturbed even, but I am surprised to see he has not shed a single tear.

  ‘Fuck this,’ he says packing the bong again. ‘We’re all going to be blown up and I’m not going to waste time dwelling on this shit. Let’s just have fun, okay? You want another?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I say feeling stoned enough already. I watch as he sucks, the bubbles and smoke frothing up inside the chamber like some primordial pool. He detaches from the bottle with a loud smacking sound, and, as the drug hits him, he struggles to place the bottle level on the floor. He falls back onto the bed beside me. ‘Are you okay?’ I say worried he might stop breathing.

  ‘Perfect,’ he says, and wiggles his fingers in front of his face. ‘I don’t know why they still bug me so much. I should be used to their crap by now.’

  ‘They’re pretty nasty.’

  ‘Nasty pasties,’ he says with a giggle. ‘Mean, meat-filled pasties. But they’re gone now. I’m free for a few months.’ He grins, but not in a way that makes me feel like giggling. In fact, I am starting to feel panicky and unsure.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I say. I look around the room that this morning felt exciting and full of possibilities but now is beginning to feel cold and alien.

  ‘We don’t have to do anything,’ he says getting up and going over to the stereo. ‘We can just lie around here all day if we want to. We’re orphans now. We’re Oliver Twist and Annie. We can go pick-pocketing. We can frolic with the street drinkers and prostitutes!’

  He does a little dance and claps his hands. I know he is trying to be funny, but the orphan reference only makes me remember my mother has died. She is still so alive in my mind that sometimes it’s easy to pretend she hasn’t really gone, except when someone says something which brings it all back. I sit up on the mattress, cross my legs and lean against the wall. Harm has regained his cheeriness, but I am struggling against a rising tide of anxiety and grief. I begin to feel separated, like I am looking at things through a foggy veil.

  ‘I want to go home,’ I say suddenly terrified.

  ‘Ha, Ha!’ he says, laughing like The Count on Sesame Street. ‘You can’t leave. You’re mine now.’ He wants me to laugh with him but I can’t stop the panic that is overwhelming me. I can’t even force a smile. He leaps off the bed and over to the stereo and rattles through the cassettes. I flinch at every sound. Harm makes his selection and presses play. Then he turns around and looks at me.

  ‘Are you all right, Mira?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, but my head is shaking no.

  He comes over and takes my hands.

  ‘I think the pot is freaking you out.’

  ‘No,’ I say, but my head is nodding yes.

  ‘Come here,’ he says, pulling me close to him. ‘The pot is making you paranoid. It can do that sometimes. Listen to the music, it will help.’

  He is right. The music starts playing and it’s like someone has opened the exit door. Relieved, I collapse into his hug, and slowly I am able to fight back against the panic.

  ‘It sounds so good,’ I say in awe.

  ‘I know,’ he says smiling. ‘Were you serious about going home?’ he says, pouting like a sulky child. As I consider my answer he continues to pout and pucker and blow his cheeks out like a fish until I begin to giggle. I suppress it for as long as I can but it finally comes out as a big snort through my nose and then it’s all over. Harm and I are falling on the floor, holding our bellies and bellowing with laughter.

  ‘Let’s get wasted,’ he says, grinning up at me.

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  ***

  ‘You think you can do it?’ says Harm, sitting on the bench, cross-legged and sucking on the bong.

  I look around the kitchen that hasn’t seen detergent in months. I pick up a coffee cup. There is mould floating in the sloshy bit at the bottom, like a charred island in a muddy sea. From the bench a cockroach walks away nonchalantly. The roaches here have never experienced human brutality. In fact, they probably consider this place a kind of cockroach sanctuary.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I say, wrapping one of his T-shirts around my waist for an apron. ‘I was taught by the best.’

  ‘These are extreme conditions, Mira. Has your training been extensive enough?’

  I laugh. A crazy, maniacal laugh as I rub my hands with glee.

  ‘You should stand back. This is no place for amateurs.’ I shake out a garbage bag then pick up my first plate. ‘Essentially, the job of cleaning is a matter of separating fused elements.’ I slide the dried up rice dish into the bag then hold the plate up for Harm to see. ‘That part was easy, but we require detergent and water to remove the thin layer of organic matter still fused to this plate.’

  Harm applauds me. ‘Fascinating. So do you cook too?’

  ‘Cooking? You mean fusing elements together? I reckon I could give it a go.’

  ‘You know what I really love?’ he says, swinging his feet and looking whimsical. ‘I love spaghetti bolognese. Can you make that?’

  ‘You want me to make you pasta?’

  ‘Yeah! I’ve never had a real Italian make pasta for me before.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Geez, I must really like you.’

  ‘You’re only human.’

  ‘So, now that I have demonstrated how this works, you want to get off your arse and start helping?’

  ‘Sure. Right after this cigarette.’

  ‘Why the hell do you smoke if you have asthma?’ I say, putting my hands on my hips and realising how Via-like I am being.

  ‘Because I never do what I am supposed to,’ he says taking a long drag that ends in a small cough. I shake my head at him sadly then push the garbage bag into his chest.

  ‘Move it sunshine. You can smoke yourself stupid once we’re done cleaning.’

  Harm sighs but he takes the bag from me. ‘You’re bossy aren’t you?’

  ‘Like I said. I learnt from the best.’

  It takes about two hours to get the kitchen looking decent. Luckily the gas hasn’t been turned off yet and we still have hot water to use. I can’t really use the word clean, because there are still thick grease splatters on the tiles, and the floor has marks on it that I just don’t seem able to budge.

  After another bong, we decide to go shopping for supplies. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk to the local supermarket but it takes us an hour as we meander down roads, become distracted by letterboxes that look like tiny houses, and stop at a playground to have a go on the tube slide and the swings. At the supermarket we shop like cashed-up children, filling our trolley with Cheezels, Milky Ways, cans of rice pudding, packets of sugared donuts and about ten boxes of Maltesers. We buy dozens of batteries for the stereo, both of us adamant that there should be no interruption to the music. Somewhere in that trolley we also manage to shove in the more sensible ingredients we require for my attempt at making pasta sauce. We ride the trolley down the aisles, narrowly missing slow-shopping oldies, and getting warning glances from gum-chewing staff. Having bought a truckload of goods, however, we have not considered how to get them home, so in a frantic, looking-over-our-shoulder-dash, we take off with the trolley and laugh hysterically as we expect to be chased or hunted down for theft.

  ‘Check that out,’ says Harm as we wander languidly home. Up the road an interesting scene is unfolding. An overdressed, big-haired elephant-woman is waging battle with a frail and flimsy chicken of a man.

  ‘Oh fuck
,’ I say when I finally register what I am seeing. ‘That’s my aunt Via.’

  Having heard all my stories about her, Harm looks as frightened as I am. As though we have choreographed it, we leap at the same time behind a nearby wall, leaving our shopping trolley on the footpath. Via’s voice travels clearly down the road, it seems to vibrate the brick wall we are leaning on.

  ‘YOU CALL-A DE POLICE TO ME?’ shouts Via. ‘I HAM CALLING DE POLICE TO GET-A YOU! YOU LEAVE-A MY MIRABELLA ON DE STREET! YOU IS A VERY BAD-A MAN-A!’

  ‘Why is she yelling at that poor old guy?’ says Harm, mouth twitching somewhere between a smile and a fearful grimace. I close my eyes and start to bang the back of my head lightly against the wall.

  ‘She thinks that’s your house.’

  ‘Why would she think that?’

  ‘Because I got her to drop me off there the night of your party. She wouldn’t have let me out of the car if she thought I was going into your house.’

  There are some loud thumping noises and I cringe at the thought of what Via may be doing to the old guy. Harm sticks his head out to see what’s going on.

  ‘I think she is trying to kick the wall down.’

  ‘Oh God.’ I say, hiding my face in my hands. ‘Is the old man okay?’

  ‘He’s locked himself behind the gate,’ says Harm with a laugh.

  ‘RICH BASTARD!’ shouts Via again. ‘I DRIVE-A MY CAR INTO YOUR FANCY BLOODY HOUSE. YOU WATCH-A OUT, UNDERSTAND? I COMING BACK-A FOR YOU.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say breathing deeply, trying to think. ‘We just wait here until she leaves.’

  ‘They’re starting to walk away now.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Yeah. There’s another lady. I think the fat one was blocking our view of her.’

  I rub my eyes. Can this get any worse? ‘That’ll be my other aunt.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ he says, pulling his head back quickly. ‘I think she saw me.’

  ‘Via?’

  ‘The other one.’

  ‘Oh, that’s it then,’ I say and start banging my head against the wall again. ‘I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead. Be careful!’ I say as Harm sticks his head out for another look then pulls it back in quickly.