I like it. I really like it.
Mum bashes the wall again. ‘Are you going to show me?’
‘No.’
I do buy it and Mum gets those awful green pants, another brown pair and one of those ear-flap beanies made out of alpaca. It’s hideous and I tell her that. So she wears it out of the shop.
We head to Yong Green Food on Brunswick Street, walking because it’s not that far. We keep to the shady side of the street and Mum tries to peep into my bag.
‘I’ll try it on at home,’ I tell her.
I don’t know why I don’t want to show her. Maybe because it feels like something new, something that might be more me than anything else I’ve ever owned. That’s scary, isn’t it? Showing a real part of yourself for the first time.
Yong’s is down the Alexandra Parade end of Brunswick Street. We pass a girl on the way into the shop and for a second I think it’s Carmen – wavy dark hair, olive skin, kind of short. My heart rate spikes. But, in fact, this girl doesn’t look like Carmen at all. Her hair is auburn and curled with irons and her skin is spray tanned and she’s not even that short.
I’m going mad.
‘Table for two,’ Mum says, squeezing my hand. She’s still wearing the hat, even though it’s boiling. I try keeping my distance, but she’s not letting me go.
‘Window seat,’ says Mum because she loves people-watching. I guess a more accurate name would be ‘people-judging’ because it’s always a one-sided diatribe about ‘dead-cow shoes’ and ‘sweatshop fashion’ and ‘why don’t they do us all a favour and shove their head in that non-biodegradable plastic bag?’
The waiter leads us to our table and hands out the menus. I don’t even look at mine. ‘I want the tofu burger.’
Mum shakes her head. ‘All that wheat. Yuck. You should have the kelp pad thai.’
I tell her I want the burger, but she holds out the menus to the waiter and says, ‘Two kelp pad thais. And water.’ She sticks out her tongue at me. ‘Don’t look like that. You’ll love it.’
I glare out the window, skin tingling, blood boiling. She smiles her mother-knows-best smile and I let her. I always let her.
You’d think I’d be used to it by now – with all those things that are out of my control, the big life-and-death things. Lately, though, I’ve been craving the small decisions, the things I can call my own, no matter how trivial.
Suddenly the decision to eat a burger feels like something that should be mine. But it’s not. And that fact contracts like an invisible hand around my throat, squeezing tighter and tighter and tighter. That’s what Carmen was talking about with Kari, wasn’t it? People who love you thinking they can tell you what to do, how to feel.
Mum unwraps my cutlery from the napkin, polishes the knife and fork, then hands them both to me. She does her own too.
‘I feel like we haven’t talked in ages,’ she says. ‘Tell me something.’
‘Something,’ I snap.
‘Ha, ha.’ She reaches across the table for my hands, but I slide them into my lap. ‘Don’t be a sook, Marlowe. You know wheat does icky stuff to your tummy.’
‘Then I could have had something else.’
‘The kelp pad thai is amazing. Trust me.’
It’s like being a weedy little kid trapped in a cage-fight with a robot – some impenetrable, unstoppable robot that never runs out of power so it doesn’t matter how many times I try to hit it or run away or scream to be let out of the cage, that damn robot will just keep coming at me.
I fold my arms across my chest as the waiter comes back with our water. I wonder if they have coke here.
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Aren’t you a bit old to be turning into a teenager?’
‘Aren’t I a bit old to have zero say in what I eat?’
She scoffs. She opens her mouth to come back at me, but I’m done listening.
‘I’m eighteen,’ I snap. My voice sounds shrill and I’m all-too aware that the tables beside us are turning to stare. ‘I can vote. I can drive a car. I can legally drink. If I broke the law I’d be tried as an adult and yet I’m being forced to eat algae because I have a mum who thinks I’m incapable of making a decision about lunch.’
Mum’s eyes are angry-wide. ‘Marlowe. Lower your voice.’ She grabs a napkin and twists it. ‘You think I treat you like a baby? Well, guess what? You are my baby.’
I used to dream that my heart was fine and I could fly. I’d be flying all over the city, but then Mum would be beside me, grabbing my arm and looking at the ground with terror. ‘What the hell are you doing, Marlowe?’ she’d yell. ‘You can’t fly!’
But now she’s got to let me go, right? Even if I fall.
I stare out the window and for once Mum stays silent. I close my eyes and try to imagine myself flying. Where would I go? I’d wave at Zan on her rooftop lounge and I’d fly over Carmen dancing in her backyard – she’d be smiling, and she’d wave and cheer, ‘Go Ray!’ Then I’d fly over Leo, and he’d be leaning over the fence between our shops and he’d be angry because his dad is having a go at him and I know how he feels so I’d reach down to him and he’d reach up.
The waiter interrupts my fantasy with two plates of kelp pad thai.
‘Yummy,’ says Mum with too much enthusiasm.
I stare at the plate; it’s exactly what I’d thought it would be – not a tofu burger.
We eat in silence. I try not to gag.
I try not to throw my plate against the wall.
When we’re done, the waiter arrives to clear our plates. ‘Dessert?’
‘I want the raspberry white chocolate cheesecake.’ I lock eyes with Mum.
She turns to the waiter with a big fat fake smile. ‘We’ll have the raw chocolate cheesecake,’ she says, ‘because we always have the raw chocolate cheesecake because my daughter doesn’t actually like the raspberry white chocolate cheesecake she only wants to order it because she’s in a strop.’
The waiter blinks at her. ‘Okay,’ he says, gathering up our plates and getting the hell out of there.
You know how in cartoons when someone gets angry and their face turns red and steam pours out their ears and they whistle like a boiling kettle until their head explodes?
Me right now.
Mum turns back to me, face clear and easy and like nothing’s up. ‘So if you’re done with your hissy fit can we talk about how many friends you’re inviting to your anniversary party next week? Because I need to know how many to cater for. I was thinking Pip can be in charge of decorations and music and you might whip up some invites and we could ask Vivienne if she’ll perform for us.’
I stare at her. Is she serious? Under the table, my legs jiggle madly. But I’m not a duck – I’m just as chaotic above the surface as I tear my napkin into shreds. ‘I told you I didn’t want a party.’ She waves my words away. I imagine them flying across the room, over the bald guy’s head, between the waiter’s legs, landing – splat – against the wall, right beside the painting of Shiva.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she says. ‘You have to celebrate these things. I let you do nothing for your birthday but I’m not letting this milestone slip by.’
The cheesecake arrives.
My lips are pressed together in a thin, impenetrable line.
‘Dig in, Marl,’ says Mum. ‘Or I’ll eat the lot.’
I don’t reach for my fork because I know that the second it’s in my hand I’ll throw it across the room where it will land clash clang bang, right alongside my words.
‘I don’t want a party,’ I say.
‘For the love of lemons, Marlowe. You don’t want kelp pad thai. You don’t want raw chocolate cheesecake. You don’t want a party. What is with you?’
Our neighbours are staring at us again. This alone should make me hold my tongue because I’m the girl who doesn’t want to be noticed, remember? But I don’t care about that. Not right now. Maybe not anymore.
‘I just want a choice,’ I say as slowly and as clearly as I can. ‘I just wa
nt to have control over something.’ Maybe I don’t say it loud enough or maybe Mum doesn’t hear because she forks a piece of cheesecake into her mouth and squirms with pleasure.
‘Oh my goddess. This is incredible,’ she says. She moans loudly enough to attract the attention of the entire café (those that weren’t already staring at us). No, this isn’t that Meg Ryan scene from that film I’ve never watched. Go back to your kelp pad thai people.
‘Here,’ she says, ‘have a piece.’ She cuts off a chunk with her fork and holds it out for me. When I don’t open my mouth she wiggles the fork. ‘Go on.’
I speak through my teeth. ‘I’m not going to let you spoonfeed me, Mum.’ Why does she never listen? Am I not being loud enough? Forceful enough?
Or maybe I don’t need to ask. Maybe I don’t need her to listen.
Maybe I just need to do.
Mum shrugs and then shoves the fork in her own mouth.
‘I just thought with you acting like a baby you might want to be fed like one,’ she says. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing out on.’
I watch as she eats the whole slice herself, piece by piece. And the whole time I think, You’re wrong. I know exactly what I’m missing out on.
I’ve always known.
My hand is in the air before I even know what I’m doing. Mum frowns at me. ‘What are you – ?’
I wave my hand until the waiter comes by. He bends over and with a distracted smile asks what he can do for me.
‘You know the raspberry white chocolate cheesecake?’ I say and look Mum square in the eye. ‘I’ll have a big slice of that, please. Takeaway.’
________
When we get home I try on my new dress with a white t-shirt underneath. My hair feels heavy though, so I tie it up and out of my face and it looks better. Not perfect but better.
I’m still mad. My raspberry white chocolate cheesecake didn’t hit the spot.
I head to the window. We used to live next door to a mechanic and on days I was home I’d have to listen to Triple M dude-rock and the clanging and bashing of tools and the word
‘mate’ shouted a lot. Now I’ve got a view of rooftops and streets and, in the middle distance, the back of Mum’s shop.
And there he is. Leo. A grey-blue blur, pacing up and down, in the butcher’s backyard. I bet he’s smoking. He looks small and insignificant and powerless. And angry.
I remember his father and the look on Leo’s face when they clashed in that same backyard not that long ago. I lean my forehead against the glass and watch him pace with such hard fury and wonder if he’s really thinking about that at all.
Leo can pace all he likes – he’s still hemmed in by the fence, keeping him trapped by his father’s shop. Like Brutus in his rat cage.
I feel it too. Feel trapped.
I turn, grab my bag and hurry downstairs. I tell Mum that Zan texted me and I’ve been invited over for dinner. She does her disapproving mum glare and tells me we’re supposed to be having a family dinner but I walk out before she can finish her guilt trip.
In the corridor I run into Pip, Princess of Whales, but I tell him I can’t stop to talk about Brutus or Diana or his next costume idea or whatever it is he wants because I have to be out of here.
But when I reach Blissfully Aware and hurry out into the backyard, Leo’s gone.
I smell smoke in the air, smoke and lemongrass shampoo. I don’t know what I was going to say to him. I have to remind myself he’s not my friend – he never could be. He’s a butcher.
Still, my tummy clenches with disappointment.
I pace in the shop’s backyard and wonder what I must look like from my bedroom window, if I could be in two places at once, watching myself. The fence presses in tight. One, two, three, four, five paces and I have to turn around and start again. Such a small world.
It’s a small enough world that I could have met Carmen even if I’d never found out who she was. We might have bumped into each other. Maybe. If I’d started eating chicken. Or maybe if I’d gone with Zan to the Kill the Club gig anyway.
And we would have liked each other. It’s not just what Carmen knows about Luis that makes me like her. She’s warm and spontaneous and generous. I like who I am around her. And I think she likes me – she likes that I can make her laugh.
My belly flutters, a feathery, tickling, hopeful flutter.
Did I get it wrong? About Carmen? Am I really bad for her? Because maybe I can be a distraction. Maybe it’s not about me being a reminder of what she’s lost. Maybe I could be the person who reminds her of what she had.
I’ve only ever been to one funeral, for my granddad. And I remember it was horrible – everyone in black and weeping and hushed conversations – until my aunty said what a sour lot we were being and Victor would have wanted this to be a party. She told us to remember the good things. People started telling funny stories and they played Granddad’s favourite Buddy Holly songs and we danced and it was wonderful.
There’s a tingle up my spine as I go to Carmen’s name in my messages. Four, all unanswered. My hand trembles as it hovers over the screen.
I still see her, scrolling through her pictures of Luis, smiling and oblivious to what was going on around her. She’s trapped too – by grief. And Kari trying to control how she processes that grief. I think Luis would want me to do anything to keep that smile on Carmen’s face.
I think I can help her step out of her cage – we can step out together.
So I text her: Are you free?
Her reply is almost immediate: Always.
Brunswick is pure concrete. Maybe the heat makes it feel that way, but what I wouldn’t give for a tree and a strip of grass and a babbling brook right about now. When I asked Carmen if we could hang out, she sent me an address in Albion Street. I checked out the house on google street view but it looks different in real life. Smaller and bone-tired. It’s red brick with a white, loopy fence. It’s one of the few houses to have a front lawn rather than a concrete slab.
My hands are shaking. My legs are shaking. Everything is shaking.
This is the house where Luis Castillejo lost his first tooth. Where he fell off the swing set in the backyard and broke his arm.
Where he played chasey with his sister.
Where he slammed his bedroom door when he was angry. This is where he lived.
I head to the front door hoping this isn’t one of those houses where you’re supposed to go to the back and only sales people and Jehovah’s Witnesses get it wrong. There’s a small white bell and when I press it, it plays ‘Greensleeves’.
This is the house where Luis Castillejo stayed up late for Orphan Black marathons and got the flu and laughed so hard he thought his sides would split and daydreamed about the girl who sat next to him in science, and took out the bins (but only after his dad reminded him three times), and accidentally punched a hole in the wall playing balloon volleyball with Carmen and –
And the door opens. An olive-skinned man with a salt-and-pepper beard peers down at me. He looks like a university professor. No, he looks like a guy who left school at fifteen to be a carpenter, even though all he wanted to do was read all day long. And everyone says if only he’d stayed at school he would have been a rocket scientist.
‘You are Carmen’s friend?’ he says with an accent. It’s a bit lispy and singsong.
I nod. I nod at Luis’ dad. Carmen’s dad.
Armando Castillejo.
Why didn’t you respond to my comment? I want to shout. But I also want to hug him. I want to sit him down and beg him to tell me everything the transplant coordinator told them about Luis’ recipients and work out if I’m really one of them. I feel like it’s me. The more I know about Luis, the stronger I feel it.
It has to be.
I need it to be.
He stands aside. ‘In,’ he says. A smile flickers at the edges of his lips. His eyes have fine lines spidering outwards from the corners. He’s wearing a blue cardigan that swamps his tiny f
rame.
‘Thank you,’ I say, in little more than a whisper.
I walk inside Luis’ house. With Luis’ dad. Armando.
The corridor is narrow and dark. No paintings on the walls, just chipped, white paint.
‘Through here.’ Luis’ dad squeezes past, brushing against my shoulder in the narrow corridor. I hope he doesn’t notice that I flinch at his accidental touch. He just smiles and waves over his shoulder for me to follow. Every room we pass I wonder: Is that your room, Luis? But all the doors are closed.
He leads me into a lounge room. I was right about the books.
Walls full of them, double-stacked. And there’s nothing much else, just two threadbare couches, a coffee table (a newspaper open to the crossword with a cup of coffee) and that’s it.
No photos.
Nothing to show Luis lived here.
There’s a mantle over a closed-in fireplace, the perfect spot to rest a picture frame. Baby photos, wedding photos, embarrassing phases, holiday snaps, anything. But there are just more books, another coffee cup and a pair of reading glasses. Where are you, Luis?
‘You have a lovely home,’ I tell him.
He waves my compliment away. ‘Carmen is washing up.’ He points through an open door, into a room that looks brighter, bigger. He sits, reaching for his newspaper.
I pause for a moment – has the cardigan always been that big or has he lost weight? I quietly thank him and walk through the door, leaving Luis’ dad behind. Leaving all my questions behind.
In the kitchen, Carmen is at the sink, singing Dusty Springfield and swaying her hips in a lazy figure eight. I pause in the doorway.
I wait for her to notice me, but she just keeps singing and swaying. I step forward. ‘Hello?’
‘Oh!’ Carmen spins around, eyes big, hand to her heart.
‘Ray! You scared the pants off me.’
I hover, unsure what to do with my arms. They feel heavy and I can’t remember what I usually do with them. ‘Sorry.’
She grabs a tea towel and dries her hands. ‘Don’t be silly.’ She smiles, watching me carefully, and I wonder if I’m supposed to say something.
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