by Robyn Bavati
“I’d definitely be more use to Selena if I went on my own.”
That settles it.
I’m seized by a moment of panic as I realise what I’ve let myself in for. I take a deep breath and tell myself to get a grip.
It’s only a weekend.
How hard can it be?
Mum books an Uber to the airport. Her flight is at ten. She hugs Oscar and me in turn. “Remember, I’m only a phone call away.”
After she leaves, it’s up to me to get Oscar to bed.
“Stay in the room with me,” he says. “And leave the light on.” It’s the ritual he usually goes through with Mum.
“You won’t fall asleep with the light on,” I argue, echoing Mum. “Let’s use the night-light.”
But Oscar’s not having it. Every time I think he’s fallen asleep, I start to tiptoe out of the room, and every time, his eyes fly open. “Jamie, stay.”
This goes on for an hour and a half. At ten o’clock, Mum calls from the plane, just before take-off.
“Everything okay, Jamie? Is Oscar asleep?”
“Yes,” I lie.
By the time Oscar is truly asleep, I am knackered, but I don’t go to bed. I wander into the living room. Maybe I’ll watch some mindless TV. I flick to the movie channel and think of Zara. She never did tell me which movie she wanted to see. Now it won’t make a difference.
I’m not in the mood for TV. I turn it off and scan the room. My eyes land on Dad’s guitar, hanging from the hook on the wall.
A month or so before he died, I asked if I could learn to play.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll teach you, and I’ll buy you your own guitar once you’ve mastered three songs.”
He tuned the guitar and showed me how to hold it. “Let’s start with ‘House of the Rising Sun’. It was the first song my father taught me.” He showed me where my fingers should go for each of the chords.
After a few minutes of pressing the strings, the pads of my fingertips hurt. I didn’t want to mention it, but Dad could see. “It’s always like that in the beginning,” he said. “Your skin will toughen up if you keep playing. After a while, you won’t even feel it.” His own fingertips were tough and calloused.
My fingers never did toughen up because we only managed three lessons.
Now, I walk over to where Dad’s guitar still rests, untouched and unplayed. I pick it up and sit on the couch, cradling the guitar the way he taught me.
Grief washes over me. I can’t play a single note.
I wake up on the couch, stiff and sore, the guitar having slid out of my arms and onto the carpet. It’s 4 am. I go to my room but don’t bother undressing. I take off my shoes and lie on my bed, fully clothed.
The faint hum coming from the refrigerator lulls me to sleep.
Mum and I talked strategy before she left.
“How will you get Oscar to all his activities?”
“We’ll take the bus to his cooking lesson. And we can walk to swimming and soccer if we leave early enough, or ask Natalie for a lift.”
Natalie is Jason’s mum, and Jason is one of Oscar’s few friends who also has DS and does a lot of the same extra-curricular activities.
“We don’t usually carpool on weekends,” said Mum.
“Don’t worry. We’ll manage.” I sounded ridiculously sure of myself, and now that I’m failing to coax Oscar to brush his teeth, I’m silently mocking my own bravado.
I’m holding out the toothpaste tube and Oscar is determinedly not taking it from me. He makes an elaborate show of putting his hands behind his back. It’s all a game to him.
It used to be Dad who got Oscar to clean his teeth in the morning. Dad was good at it and Oscar loved the attention. Not for the first time, I wonder if Oscar misses Dad. I don’t ask him, though. Oscar used to cry when anyone talked about Dad, and I don’t want to risk upsetting him. Or me.
I pick up Oscar’s toothbrush and squeeze some paste onto it. “Brush,” I say.
Oscar shakes his head and laughs.
“Then you won’t be able to go to your cooking lesson. Only people with clean teeth are allowed in.”
It works. Oscar grabs the toothbrush and starts brushing.
I use the same tactic to get him to put on his tracksuit and eat breakfast.
On the way to the bus stop, Oscar dawdles. If we miss the next bus, he’ll never get to cooking on time.
“Hurry up, Oscar.”
Oscar hates being hurried. And he is not the best walker. His muscle tone is poor, so exercise is especially important for him. But while he loves dancing and basketball because they’re social, he tends to drag his feet when required to walk.
I take my phone out of my pocket to check the time. The bus will be here in two minutes, three tops. At the rate Oscar is walking, it will take us at least another five minutes to reach the stop.
“Keep walking,” I say. “I’ll run ahead to the bus stop and ask the driver to wait.”
I’m fifty metres short of the stop when the bus pulls up. I wave my arms frantically, trying to get the driver’s attention. He doesn’t see me. No one appears to want to get on or off, and the bus drives off. I’m fuming. This bus is almost always late. Today of all days, it was two minutes early.
Oscar starts crying when he realises he’s missed the bus. It takes me forever to calm him down.
Since there is no chance now of getting him to his cooking lesson, I let him take his time as we head back home. He stops to look at plants and insects, and a ten-minute walk turns into a thirty-five minute one. It’s an exercise in patience, but I don’t say a word. It was my responsibility to get him to the cooking class he loves so much. I’ve let him down.
Mum calls while we’re eating lunch – baked beans on toast. “Sorry I haven’t called sooner. Everything okay, Jamie?”
“Sure,” I say. “Everything’s fine.”
“Does Oscar want to say hello? Put him on.”
If I give the phone to Oscar, she might ask him about his cooking lesson, and he will remember that he didn’t go and he might start crying all over again.
“He’s busy,” I say. “No need to worry. Oscar’s fine.”
Now that I’ve ruined Oscar’s morning, I don’t want to wreck any more of his day. He has swimming at three, and by one o’clock I’m already coaxing him into his swimmers.
I wish I was eighteen and had a driver’s licence. Then I could drive him to swimming.
I remember that Jason is in Oscar’s swim class. Perhaps Natalie could give Oscar a lift, but I forgot to ask Mum for her number. I ask Oscar if he knows it.
He doesn’t. It will have to be public transport, after all.
We head off once again to the bus stop, but with an hour to spare, it doesn’t matter that the ten-minute walk takes thirty-five.
This time we make it onto the bus. We sit in the front seat, right behind the driver.
As we enter the sports and aquatic centre, Oscar stops walking. “I don’t want to go swimming. I’m too tired.”
I did not get him all the way here for him just to give up. “No, you’re not,” I say firmly.
“I am.” He flops down on the couch near the doorway.
I’m fed up and not sure what to do next, when Oscar jumps up again. “Jason’s here.” Oscar hurries over to the entrance as Jason arrives. Now that his friend is here, he forgets he didn’t want to swim. I say hi to Natalie and go into the change room with Oscar and Jason to keep an eye on them and hurry them up.
Ten minutes later, they’re both in the pool.
I check my phone while Oscar is swimming. There’s a missed call from Dan and a text message asking what I’m up to. I text back that I’m hanging with Oscar as Mum’s out of town.
“I don’t suppose you could give Oscar and me a lift home?” I ask Natalie.
“Sure,” she says. “Where’s your mum today?”
“In Perth. Family emergency.”
“And she left Oscar with you?”
; “Oscar didn’t want to go. I offered to look after him. It’s not for long. She left last night. She’ll be back tomorrow.”
Natalie smiles warmly at me. “Nice of you to give up your weekend.”
With Natalie around, Oscar is suddenly Mr Cooperative. When she says, “Get a move on, boys,” he gets a move on. When she says, “Hop in the car,” he hops in the car.
“Thanks for the lift,” I say, as she drops us back home.
“You’re welcome, Jamie. Say hi to your mum when she gets back.”
“Will do. Um, any chance you could give Oscar and me a lift to soccer tomorrow?”
“I’m really sorry, Jamie, but Jason won’t be going. He has other plans.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly. I ask Natalie for her phone number, because it occurs to me that while I’m alone at home with Oscar, I should at least be able to contact an adult who lives nearby.
I tap the digits into my phone.
Natalie has driven off, but Oscar refuses to come inside. I entice him with the promise of a biscuit. He bounces in ahead of me, gobbles the biscuit and disappears.
A minute later, the doorbell rings. I open the door. There’s nobody there. I step outside to see if the person who rang the bell thinks no one is home and has gone back out into the street. I go as far as the footpath, which is empty, then retrace my steps.
Wham! The door to the house slams shut before I reach it. A key turns in the lock and I realise what Oscar is up to. His idea of a joke. It’s not the first time he’s done this.
His cheeky face appears in the window. He’s laughing his head off.
“Come on, Oscar. Joke’s over. Let me in.”
He shakes his head, refuses to open the door.
I coax and cajole, flatter and barter, bargain and pester. The door stays closed.
Eventually, I circle the house, looking for an open window. Luckily, there is one. I climb in and tumble onto Oscar’s bed.
A minute later, my phone rings and I hurry to answer it, in case it’s Mum.
It’s not Mum. It’s Dan.
“Just wanted to see how you’re doing,” he says. “Do you need help with Oscar?”
“Nah, it’s fine.”
The second I hang up, I become aware of an unnatural silence. Oscar has become suspiciously quiet. Normally, he’d be interrupting my conversations trying to get my attention. What is he up to?
I search the house. Where is he? He’s not in the kitchen. He’s not in the living room, or the dining room. He’s not in the bathroom, Mum’s room, or his bedroom.
I find him in my room, drawing all over the History essay I finished on Thursday. I want to strangle him. My essay is due first thing Monday morning, our printer is broken and I won’t have time to print out another copy at school. Mr Dixon, my history teacher, won’t let us submit our work online.
I start yelling at Oscar. Oscar starts crying.
Then I remember I’m yelling at someone who may not know better, and I’m so ashamed.
“Don’t do that again,” I say.
He’s crying a bucketload of tears. “Don’t be angry, Jamie.”
Finally, I wrap my arms around him and the tears subside.
Looking after Oscar is exhausting, but I only have to do it for one more day. Then Mum will be home and I’ll go back to my life, Oscar to his.
When Oscar is finally not just in bed, but sound asleep, I call Zara to cancel what was meant to be the highlight of my weekend. It’s nearly 10 pm and I know I’ve left it late. I was too busy with Oscar to call her sooner. I could message her instead, but it’s not a great feeling when someone cancels on you via text. And if I can’t spend time with her this weekend, I want to at least hear her voice.
The phone rings and rings. I shouldn’t be calling her. She must have already gone to bed. Will her voicemail kick in, or should I hang up?
Maybe she’s already asleep and the ringing will wake her. How inconsiderate would that be? I’m about to hang up when she finally answers the call. She sounds a bit breathless, but not sleepy.
I tell her I have to look after Oscar tomorrow, and launch into an inarticulate and longwinded explanation of how and why Mum had to rush off.
“Wait . . . this happened yesterday?” she says.
“Yes.”
“And you’re telling me now?”
“Sorry,” I mumble. Then, more firmly, “I really am.”
I’m met with silence.
I don’t usually bail on people. I’m trustworthy, I want to say, but realise how dodgy that would sound. I keep my mouth shut and wait.
It feels like forever before she speaks. “Have you ever looked after Oscar for a weekend before?”
“No,” I say.
“Has it been going okay?”
“Not really.” I tell her about my failed attempt to get him to his cooking lesson and about Oscar locking me out of the house.
The sound of her laughter reassures me and some of my tension falls away. “Sorry,” she says, “I shouldn’t be laughing.”
“It’s okay. Maybe in fifty years from now, I’ll be laughing about it too.”
“So, what are you doing tomorrow?” she asks.
“Oscar’s got soccer in the morning – ten-thirty till twelve – if I manage to get him there. In the afternoon, I don’t know, I guess I could take him to a Disney movie.”
“I love Disney movies,” she says without missing a beat. “Am I invited?”
“Really? You want to hang out with me and Oscar?”
“Sure,” she says, and I want to throw my arms around her.
“Do you want to keep me company while Oscar plays soccer?” Too late, I wish I hadn’t asked. Oscar is my responsibility, not hers. But the words are out there.
“Sure, why not? It might be easier to get him there on time if there are two of us.”
I grin into the phone and we work out the details.
“See you tomorrow,” says Zara.
“Bye,” I say.
I’d hoped to sleep at least till eight, but Oscar wakes me at half-past six. He’s worse than my alarm clock – he doesn’t stop yelling until I get up.
I stomp into the bathroom, tired and grumpy.
“Why are you angry?” Oscar asks.
He wants pancakes for breakfast, but I don’t know how to make them. I offer him Weet-Bix instead. He refuses to eat them. I spend the next twenty minutes suggesting alternatives, bearing in mind what Mum would consider appropriate breakfast food, but Oscar’s not buying it. Finally, I give in and allow the less healthy option of stale cake with butter and jam.
After breakfast, it’s time for teeth brushing, which is predictably problematic. Oscar has hidden his toothbrush, and yesterday’s tactic – only people with clean teeth are allowed to play soccer – isn’t working. Getting Oscar dressed and his shoelaces tied are just as hard. By nine o’clock, when Oscar is finally ready, I feel as if I’ve run a marathon. How will I survive the rest of the day?
When I offered to look after Oscar for the weekend, I had visions of him sitting for hours – in between his scheduled activities – calmly colouring in his mandala colouring book, or watching his favourite shows on TV. What was I thinking? It didn’t occur to me I’d have trouble getting him to his activities. He loves his activities! It’s only now when reality hits that I remember how often he changes his mind.
When Zara arrives, as arranged, at ten, she’s wearing a pink puffer jacket over jeans and a hoodie, her cheeks flushed from walking. She looks so amazing, it’s hard not to stare. Something flutters inside me.
“Hi,” says Oscar.
She gives him a hug. “Great to see you again.”
Oscar is so excited to hear that Zara will be watching his soccer match, he literally drags us towards the door.
“Wait!” I say, aware how ironic it is that I’m the one holding us up, but I have to get the money Mum left in her bedside drawer.
I race down the hallway. My parents’ bedroom, whi
ch used to combine scents of aftershave, cologne and Dad himself with the sweeter aroma of Mum’s perfume, now smells only of Mum. A rush of sadness engulfs me.
I take a deep breath and look for the money. There’s enough for two tickets to a movie, a meal at McDonald’s and a couple of taxi rides. We can take a taxi straight from soccer to the Westfield shopping centre, where movies and Macca’s are under one roof. That way we’ll save some walking and still have enough for a taxi home.
I’m beginning to see why Mum is so organised. You can’t be spontaneous with Oscar around. For things to run smoothly, you need to plan.
I make sure Oscar has his jacket zipped up and I zip up my own.
The three of us set off, our breath making little jets of steam in the wintery air.
Oscar walks faster than usual, and soon he is kicking a ball around the soccer field with the rest of his team.
Zara and I sit on the concrete bench overlooking the field.
“Have you had time to study for tomorrow’s practice exam?” Zara asks. We’re sitting side by side, our eyes on Oscar. Every time he looks up at us, we wave to let him know we’re watching.
“No,” I say. “But it’s only a practice exam.” I’ve never taken a practice exam so lightly before, but then, I’ve never had to look after Oscar before. “My mum will be home tonight, and I’ll have nearly two weeks to study for the real one.” The “real one” I’m referring to is next Friday’s exam, which counts towards our final mark, so could potentially affect whether we get into university and the course of our choice. And even though that’s a long way off, I can’t pretend it’s not a big deal.
I glance at Zara. She’s giving Oscar another wave. Her smile is infectious.
“Did you always know that Oscar had Down syndrome?” Zara asks me. “I mean, at what age was it diagnosed?”
“The day he was born.”
“And how old were you?”
“Three and a half. I remember going to the hospital to see my mum, knowing something was wrong.”
“How did you know?” Zara asks.
“I sensed it. Dad told me I had a baby brother and I was happy. I wanted a brother. But as we went up in the lift, Dad seemed worried and sad.