Her Great Expectations

by Joan Kilby

  “Steve keeps complaining I never bake anymore, so I gave in for once,” Hetty said, slicing a row of brownies.

  “He likes his sweets.” Jack pinched a bar and took a bite. “With good reason. This is delicious.”

  “It’s time for his annual checkup, but he keeps putting it off,” Hetty went on. “His old doctor retired and he doesn’t want to ‘break in’ a new one. I think he’s scared the doctor will tell him to lose weight and get healthy.”

  “Do you and Dad want to come for dinner on Saturday?” Jack asked. “Renita and Lexie will be there.”

  “I’m going on a two-week retreat at the meditation center,” Hetty said. “But your father can. It would be a relief to know he’s not just sitting here brooding.”

  “Meditation, huh? This really is a new you.”

  Hetty’s eyes shut. A beatific smile transformed her face, and when she opened her eyes again she radiated calm. “I feel so peaceful, I can’t tell you. I wish Steve would try it.” Her smile faded and her expression turned wistful. “He’s not supportive. I think he feels threatened.”

  “He’ll get used to it.” Jack brushed the crumbs off his hands over the sink. “I’ll go talk to him.”

  Jack put another piece of brownie on a plate and took it to his father in the lounge room. He noticed a plate with chocolate crumbs on the side table next to the recliner. And Steve’s stomach bulging over his waistband. Hetty was right—he’d put on a few pounds since Jack had seen him last. “Here you go, Dad. What’s up?”

  Steve took the brownie and had a bite. “Your mother’s turned lesbian.”

  Jack fought back a laugh. “It’s just a haircut.” He lowered himself onto the dark green brocade couch opposite and reached out to pat Smedley, who’d trotted over.

  “It’s more than a haircut,” Steve growled. “She’s joined a cult. According to the pamphlets she brings home, they’re celibate up there at the retreat center.”

  “Celibate is hardly the same as lesbian,” Jack said, shaking his head.

  “Who knows what she gets up to with those people in white robes,” Steve said. “I just know she’s not here with me.”

  “You should develop some interests of your own,” Jack suggested.

  Ignoring that, Steve polished off the brownie. “And she’s hardly ever around to cook dinner.”

  “Come on, Dad. You can look after yourself.” This grumpiness was out of character for Steve. He’s afraid, Jack thought. Afraid of getting old, of becoming redundant.

  Of losing Hetty.

  Steve dabbed at the crumbs on the plate. “I expected the girls to take her side, but not you.”

  “I came to invite you to dinner on Saturday,” Jack said, sidestepping the issue. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in his parents’ marriage problems.

  “Football’s on that night. Will you be watching?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then forget it.” Steve took off his steel-framed glasses and peered at the lenses. “Damn things are always blurry.”

  “Are you feeling okay? I hear you’re going to see the doctor soon.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Steve said, polishing his glasses on the hem of his shirt. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”

  Jack waited, expecting a qualifier, but none came. “That’s fine, but you should get that checkup. Why don’t you come jogging with me sometime?”

  “No, thanks. Too energetic for me.” Steve lifted his beer to drink, but it was empty. “Hetty! Can you bring me another cold one?”

  There was no answer.

  With difficulty he pushed himself out of his chair and unbent, one hand supporting his lower back. “Where is that woman? She’s never around when I need her.”

  “She’s probably outside hanging up the washing. I’ll get you a beer.” But Steve was already shuffling to the kitchen. Sighing, Jack glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. I’ll catch you later, Dad.”

  “OLIVER, I’M HOME.” Sienna glanced at her watch. Six o’clock. She was running late. She dropped her bag of groceries on the dark green granite counter in her small, efficient kitchen. Leafing through the envelopes she’d collected from the mailbox on her way in, she listened for her son’s reply. Electricity bill, junk mail, letter from the high school… “Oliver, are you here?”

  “I’m in my room.” His voice cracked on every second syllable. “On the computer.”

  Leaving the groceries and the mail for the moment, Sienna went to the low bookshelf in the breakfast nook and took out the local map. She didn’t have time for this, but she was curious to find out exactly where Jack Thatcher lived.

  Linden Avenue, she discovered, was on the southern outskirts of town about two miles from the village center. There the houses bordered paddocks where cattle and horses grazed. Her house was a couple of miles north of the town, in an older part of Summerside. She wasn’t likely to bump into him while out jogging. Damn.

  Sienna closed the map book and went back to the kitchen to start dinner, embarrassed by her foolish preoccupation. If she kept this up, the next thing she knew she’d be driving past his house. She shook her head. That was so not going to happen.

  She put away the groceries and got the chicken out of the freezer to defrost in the microwave. But like a terrier with a bone, her mind kept going back to Jack and his Thai green curry. If Glyneth and Rex hadn’t been coming she could have accepted his invitation. She wouldn’t have to even think about cruising slowly past like some creepy stalker—she’d be pulling into his driveway, a welcome guest.

  While the chicken thawed, Sienna opened the letter from the school, thinking it was probably a notice of some event. But as she scanned the single page her heart sank. It was from the middle-school coordinator, informing her tersely that Oliver had failed to hand in assignments in three subjects—English, math and biology. Sienna breathed out hard, nostrils flaring. Olly was a smart kid; she shouldn’t be getting letters like this about him.

  “Oliver!” she yelled loud enough for him to hear her in his room.

  “I’m right here.” He appeared abruptly in the doorway. He’d changed out of his olive-green-and-gray school uniform into a Billabong T-shirt and blue jeans, and put fresh gel on his thick curly blond hair. He made his way into the kitchen, brushing past her on his way to the cupboard that held the water glasses. At six foot, he was already taller than her by six inches. “What’s the matter?”

  She shook the letter, rustling the paper. “Mr. Kitzinger says you haven’t been turning in assignments.”

  “Oh.” Glass in hand, he edged past her to help himself to water from the tap.

  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  He drank a few gulps, then dashed the rest of the water into the sink. “I hate English, my math teacher is crap and I want to drop biology next year.”

  Alarmed, Sienna rubbed her bare arms, crumpling the letter. She knew Oliver was at an age where interest in school waned, but this was the first time he’d talked about dropping science subjects. “Regardless of how you feel about your teachers or the subjects, the fact is, you have to do the work. If you don’t improve your marks, you’re never going to be accepted into university.”

  He slumped against the counter, his eyebrows lowering over his deep-set gray-blue eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to go to uni.”

  Sienna felt her blood go cold. “You don’t know what you want. You’re only fourteen.”

  “Exactly. I’m only fourteen. So quit planning my life for me.” Pushing off the counter, Oliver went into the family room, threw himself onto the couch and switched on the TV.

  “Turn if off, please.” Sienna waited, silently counting to ten. She got to eight before he did as she asked. “If you want to be a doctor you need to learn good study habits—”

  “I don’t want to be a doctor. You’re the one who wants it. We’ve got enough doctors in this family already—Dad, you, Nanna and Pop.”

  “When I was your age I d
idn’t think I wanted to be a doctor, either. I changed my mind,” Sienna told him. “You’ll change your mind, too, when you get older.”

  “You don’t know that,” Oliver protested. “You think you know me, but you don’t.”

  She took a breath, planning to say that of course she knew him—he was her son, her baby she’d taken care of since he was born. She knew the birthmark on his back and the way his big toe curved inward, just like hers. She knew he worried about global warming and that he liked comedy shows better than crime dramas.

  Then she looked at the great big boy sitting on the couch, staring at her with a mixture of sullenness and anxiety, and her words stopped in her throat. Did she know him anymore, really? Oh, he was still her son and all those things about him were still true, but he was changing. Growing up, growing away from her. He was developing muscles and peach fuzz on his chin and a mind of his own. She no longer knew his every thought and feeling, because he no longer blurted them out as soon as he came through the door. All too soon he would be a man. Blink and he’d be gone, leaving home.

  She crossed her arms over her tightened stomach. “What…what do you want to do?”

  Oliver hunched his broad bony shoulders. “I don’t know. Dig ditches, maybe.”

  Oh, God. Sienna felt the breath stick in her chest. He didn’t mean that—he was just trying to push her buttons. And doing a darn good job of it, too. Oliver had been in the gifted class right through primary school. He had so much potential. She had such high hopes for him. The important thing for her right now was not to overreact.

  Letting her breath go, she said calmly, “Whatever you end up doing, it’s important that you finish high school. Keep your grades up, take a variety of courses and keep your options open.”

  “I guess,” he said grudgingly, not looking at her.

  Now that he was acquiescing, she couldn’t resist one more salvo. “Oliver, you know how strongly I feel about education. It’s a crime to have the gift of intelligence and talent and not use it to the best of your ability.”

  “A crime is something that’s against the law,” said Oliver, ever the nitpicker.

  Hands on her hips, Sienna shot back, “In my world, not living up to your potential is against the law.”

  Oliver groaned theatrically and pushed his hands through his blond curls.

  “I want you to get right in there after dinner and get busy on your homework,” Sienna added. “No MSN, no texting your friends—”

  “It’s Saturday night,” Oliver complained. “I’m going to Jason’s. I’ll do the assignments this weekend.”

  “Oliver—”

  “I promise!”

  The microwave was beeping. Sienna went back to the kitchen and removed the thawed chicken. She took out her brand-new wok and got out the chopping board, biting her tongue not to keep haranguing him. “All right. You can go to Jason’s, but you will spend the rest of the weekend catching up on your schoolwork.” Seconds ticked by. She glanced at him. “Well?”

  Finally Oliver said, “Okay.” He shuffled his large feet, ruffling the area rug that overlaid the polished hardwood floor. A few more seconds passed. “Do you want to see my solar-powered robot?”

  Sienna took another deep breath and released it. “Sure.”

  Oliver went to his bedroom and came back with a flashlight and a weird-looking contraption made out of a computer disk with half a Ping-Pong ball and two rubber-tipped motors attached to the bottom surface. Wires ran from the motor “legs” through the central hole to an array of light sensors, he explained. The sensors were wired to a small switch and a backup battery pack. Oliver placed the robot on the floor and knelt beside it. He flicked on the switch and shone the flashlight onto the sensors.

  Nothing happened.

  Oliver’s fair skin flushed, the scattered pimples on his chin turning deeper red. He thrust the light closer. “Come on.”

  “Give it a minute,” Sienna said.

  Slowly the legs began to move up and down, the rubber tips squeaking backward over the floor. It was the oddest thing Sienna had ever seen. “That’s amazing! Did you do that in science?”

  “Yeah, we had a special presentation this morning,” he said eagerly. “A guy came in and showed us how to make electronic stuff. It was way cool.” The robot crashed into the side of the couch and marched frenetically in place until Oliver pulled it away and sent it in another direction. “I need better legs for it, though. And something to make it go in reverse. Jack said the next time he’d bring more controls.”

  Jack. Could it be the same man? She dismissed the thought. No, it was too much of a coincidence.

  She reached out and squeezed Oliver’s shoulder. “You’re a smart kid. You’ve got a scientific mind. You could do anything.”

  Oliver glanced up at her, his mouth curving uncertainly. She returned his smile with love and pride. Briefly his eyes met hers in naked affection that embarrassed him so much he colored and glanced away.

  “Oh, Olly.” Flooded with warmth, Sienna reached over and hugged him. He hugged her back briefly, then began to squirm. With a sigh she scrubbed her hand through his hair and reluctantly let him go.

  They watched the robot squeak and scrape across the tiles. Meesha, the black cat, dropped from the chair arm where she’d been curled up sleeping and watched the jerking mechanical computer disk with alert interest.

  Sienna asked, “Have you talked to your father lately?”

  Oliver tensed, then shook his head, pretending all his concentration was on the erratic progress of the robot.

  But Sienna could tell she had his attention. “Have you told him yet whether you’ll go with him on the ski trip to New Zealand?”

  “Why do you want me to go? I’d have to miss a week of school. And the qualifying exam to see if I can go into the advanced math class next year.”

  “I’ll speak to your teacher. We’ll work something out.”

  The robot hit the table leg and stopped. Oliver picked it up and watched the legs give one last flicker. “I don’t want to go if she’s going.”

  Sienna’s jaw tightened, but she strove for an even tone. “Erica’s seven months pregnant and not having an easy time. From what Anthony said, I doubt she’s going.”

  Still Oliver hesitated. Sienna didn’t want to lecture him again tonight, but neither did she want him to miss this opportunity. “If you want to maintain a good relationship with your dad you need to spend time with him. Every second weekend isn’t enough. We agreed that you would have a holiday with him every year.”

  Oliver glanced up, his eyes searching her face. “Doesn’t it bother you? Her, I mean.”

  Yes, it did. She’d gotten past her initial raw anger and grief, but the hurt lingered. However, she wanted to do what was best for Oliver. “This isn’t about me. You don’t have to choose sides. You can love us both. You can even—” she swallowed hard “—love Erica.”

  “That’s never going to happen.” Oliver was silent for a moment, thoughtful. “You really don’t mind?”

  “No, I don’t. I want you to go.”

  He glanced at her as if to make absolutely certain, then his expression gradually brightened as the reality of the trip started to sink in. “Okay. I’ll call him now.” He hesitated, then hugged her quickly. “Thanks.”

  As she watched her son scramble to his feet and head for the phone, heat pricked Sienna’s eyes. She’d known he was ambivalent about going, but not that his reluctance was out of concern for her feelings. She hated to think of him not going after what he wanted, only to have regrets. That applied to his schoolwork, too, even if he couldn’t see it right now.

  She got to her feet, glancing once again at her watch. Oh, God. It was six-thirty. Her guests would be here soon and she’d better get busy.

  “I COULD HAVE SWORN she was enjoying our conversation, then out of the blue her smile turned sour,” Jack said to Bogie as he unloaded groceries onto the kitchen counter. “Do you think it was something I said?�
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  Bogie’s heavy fringed tail wagged in sympathy, but the golden retriever was too busy trawling the tiled floor for spilled crumbs to actually reply.

  “It’s not like I’m in the habit of stalking women in the vegetable aisles,” Jack continued in his one-sided conversation. “But if you’d seen that mess of red curls you’d have crossed the room to talk to her, too.”

  She looked to be about his age, maybe a little younger, say early to mid-thirties. Designer jeans, good-quality flat leather shoes, crisp white blouse beneath a tailored dark jacket. She could be an upmarket housewife—plentiful in Summerside. Then again, those slender fingers with their just-scrubbed look and short clean nails could belong to a pianist. Or a brain surgeon. All in all, he guessed pianist, but maybe that was simply because he had a thing for Oscar Peterson.

  Oscar was on the CD player now, jazzy piano notes bouncing around the kitchen like the dust motes in the last rays of the sun spilling through the large windows overlooking the back garden. Outside, rainbow lorikeets were flitting home to roost in the gum trees, their raucous chatter nearly drowning out the music. Inside the sprawling single-story house, terra cotta tiles and walls of ocher and almond gave off a cozy warm glow. Jack poured himself a glass of red wine and began to cook.

  An hour later the aroma of chili, garlic and ginger permeated the kitchen. The first of his guests, his sister Renita, banged open the front door and called through the house. “Hey, Jack. Come and give me a hand. This box weighs a ton.”

  He strode out of the kitchen and into a short hallway bordering the lounge room to see his sister, her dark head and curvy round figure almost hidden behind a large cardboard box. He took it out of her arms. “This isn’t so heavy. Maybe you need to start lifting weights.”

  “Ugh, I can’t think of anything I’d like less.” Renita went ahead of him to the kitchen, her ponytail swinging and her flip-flops slapping on the tiles. She’d changed out of the suit she wore as the loans manager at the local bank and into a sleeveless top and cargo pants.