A Weekend with Oscar

by Robyn Bavati

  “I guess it does.” I take her hands and give them a squeeze.

  She smiles shyly. “I was kind of hoping you’d stick around.”

  My sudden shyness matches hers. “So was I.”

  Oscar comes out of the bathroom. It’s time to leave.

  Terry insists on driving us home.

  It’s dark outside. Oscar has brushed his teeth and is in his pyjamas.

  “I want to do colouring,” he says as he climbs into bed.

  “Really? After all that painting you did today?”

  He nods, and I go to look for his mandala colouring book, hoping it will help him fall asleep, but he’s so tired already that he lays the book aside almost as soon as I hand it to him.

  “Was it a good day, Oscar?”

  He nods sleepily, and burrows down beneath the covers.

  “When will Mum be home?” he asks.

  “Not till you’re asleep,” I say.

  “It’s seven days till my birthday.”

  “I know.” I switch on the night-light, then turn off the main one. “You’ll be thirteen years old.”

  He smiles to himself and closes his eyes.

  I become aware of my own exhaustion, but I don’t go to bed. My mind’s so full of Zara; I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. Besides, Mum should be back any minute.

  I tiptoe out of Oscar’s room and into the kitchen. I wash the breakfast dishes and fill the kettle. Waiting for the water to boil, I send Zara a text: Thanks for hanging out with me and Oscar.

  A few seconds later she texts me back: I had fun.

  Me 2

  I make a pot of Mum’s favourite ginger and lemongrass tea, pour myself a cup and carry it into the living room.

  I write Zara another text: Still thinking of u . . .

  I hesitate before pressing SEND.

  Every second that passes feels like a lifetime, but it couldn’t be more than a minute before she texts back: Still thinking of u 2.

  I don’t realise I’ve been holding my breath till I feel it release.

  I turn on the TV. I’m about to watch a Netflix thriller when I catch an update of the evening news.

  “All flights to and from Perth are still grounded because of the storm.”

  No, that can’t be right. What storm? I flick channels, find another news station that confirms it.

  “Bad weather conditions in Perth have left thousands of passengers stranded . . . ”

  I try calling Mum. No answer. I’m not surprised. If a storm is raging, the phone lines and internet are probably down.

  When I go to bed at ten o’clock, I still haven’t heard a word from her. I fall asleep praying she’ll be home by the time I wake up.

  Something or someone is shaking me, edging me towards consciousness. I keep my eyes shut, not ready to wake.

  The shaking continues.

  Mum, is that you?

  “Jamie, wake up!” Pieces of unfinished puzzle slot into place.

  It’s not Mum; it’s Oscar. “Where’s Mum?” he asks.

  I rub my eyes and remember. “Still in Perth. There’s a storm there. The plane can’t fly till the weather improves.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “I don’t know, Oscar. As soon as the plane can take off. Come on, time to get dressed and ready for school.”

  Oscar runs out of my room and towards the front door. I jump out of bed and run after him. Still in his pyjamas, he unlocks the door and steps out onto the mat.

  “Oscar, where are you going?”

  “To wait outside till Mum gets home.”

  “No, bad idea. She won’t come home until we’re both at school.”

  He hesitates. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  He comes inside and heads to his room. “What will I wear?”

  Mum usually puts his clothes out each evening, so I follow him, look through his wardrobe, and toss a navy tracksuit onto his bed. By the time he comes into the kitchen, breakfast – Brown Rice Puffs with almond milk – is on the table. Oscar eats silently.

  “What do you want in your sandwich?” I open the fridge to see what’s there. “Avocado and tomato?”

  Oscar nods.

  Mum always keeps a loaf of bread in the freezer, so I take out two slices and make Oscar’s sandwich. It will thaw by lunchtime. Ten minutes later, I’m waiting outside with him when his school bus, a twelve-seater mini, arrives.

  I give him a hug, like Mum always does, before he climbs the bus’s steep front stairs. He takes a seat by the window nearest me and waves, and I wave back. I watch the bus drive off until I can no longer see it, and something inside me clenches.

  Poor kid! Oscar’s the third to get picked up by a bus that goes on to pick up six more kids. Peak hour aside, a ride that normally takes ten minutes, takes nearly an hour after all those stops. Maybe he doesn’t mind the ride.

  I make it to class with ten seconds to spare.

  “How was Jafar’s Journey?” Chandler says loudly. His buddies snicker.

  “Shut it, Chandler.”

  “No talking,” growls Mrs Malone.

  Chandler sidles past me, nonchalantly, as if he couldn’t care less about school – though I’m sure that’s a front – and takes his seat.

  I look around for Zara. She isn’t here.

  Dan isn’t either.

  Zara rushes in, breathless, and takes her seat beside Chandler.

  Hiding my phone under the desk, I log onto the latest news bulletins from Perth. The storm was the worst Perth has seen in decades. In parts of the city, cars are half submerged in streets that have turned into rivers. Helicopters hover over flooded roads and embankments, bringing first aid and rescue teams.

  The storm has caused a lot of damage, but it’s over. The skies have cleared, flights are no longer grounded and the airport has returned to normal functioning. But I haven’t heard a word from Mum. Why hasn’t she called?

  She might have left in the middle of the night and didn’t want to wake me. She could be on the plane right now.

  But then why didn’t she text?

  If the storm was bad and the power was down, maybe she couldn’t charge her phone. But aren’t there phone chargers at the airport?

  Mrs Malone hands out the practice exam. I haven’t had a chance to study for it, but even if I had, it wouldn’t make any difference. My mind is so far away that when I glance down at the paper in front of me, it might as well be in Swahili.

  The flight from Perth to Melbourne takes about three and a half to four hours. I imagine fistfights at the airport, everyone who missed their flight yesterday trying to get on the plane today. Mum might be last in the queue.

  Then again, she’s assertive. She could be home right now. Maybe she hasn’t phoned because she doesn’t want to disturb me when she knows I’m at school. Or maybe she was so exhausted she went straight to sleep.

  I take a deep breath and try to relax.

  Mrs Malone shoots a puzzled look in my direction. When she collects the papers at the end of the lesson, I hand in a blank one.

  “Do you want to talk about this?”

  I shake my head.

  “This isn’t like you, Jamie. I want you to go to see Mr Patterson.”

  I don’t reply.

  “We’re here for you, Jamie. I want you to know that.”

  The rest of the morning is a write-off. I text Mum multiple times but receive no reply. I go to class but don’t take anything in. I just can’t focus, even though I keep telling myself that Mum will probably be in the kitchen, cooking, by the time I get home.

  I meet Zara in the cafeteria at lunchtime. Today I really need the soup. It’s not an addition to my lunch. It is my lunch. I was so busy making Oscar’s sandwich, I forgot my own.

  We sit at an empty table by the window.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Zara.

  “There was a storm in Perth.”

  “Right, it was all over the news. So, how’s your mum?”


  “All flights were cancelled. I’m not sure when she’s getting home.” I can’t bring myself to tell her she hasn’t even been in touch.

  Zara lets out a long, empathic sigh. “That’s tough,” she says.

  “I’ll have to leave early. Someone needs to be there when Oscar gets home.”

  Chandler slinks past our table. “Hey, Zara. How was Bambi? I asked Anderson but he wouldn’t tell me.”

  Zara gives him the look of disdain he deserves.

  “How about your brother, the retard?” Chandler persists, turning to me. “Did he like the movie? You know, in the olden days, retards didn’t go to the movies. They put people like him in institutions.”

  “They should put you in an institution,” Zara shoots back.

  Chandler laughs as he sidles off.

  “Oscar’s got swimming today,” I continue, not even reacting to Chandler because I have more important things on my mind. “If Mum isn’t back yet, I’ll have to take him, but I’m not sure how.”

  “Don’t worry about it before you need to,” Zara advises. “Hopefully your mum will get back in time.” She spears a piece of tomato with her plastic fork. “Hey, why aren’t you eating?”

  “Forgot to make lunch.”

  “Have some of mine.” She slides her salad towards me. It consists of assorted leaves, tinned tuna and chopped tomatoes. About half is left.

  “I can’t eat your lunch.”

  “Why not? I’ve had enough. If I finish this, I won’t have room for the soup.”

  I pick up the fork she left in the plastic container and shovel salad into my mouth. Zara takes dainty sips of her soup.

  After she goes off to class, I try calling Mum again. Still no answer.

  I can’t focus in class. The afternoon, like the morning, is a complete waste of time.

  I skip history, my last lesson for the day, and leave school an hour early.

  Mum’s car is sitting in the driveway, where she left it on Friday. It gives me no clue as to whether she’s home. I pull my key out of my pocket as I approach the house. A handwritten note is taped to the door.

  Came for my session at two. No one was home.

  The name “Margie” is scrawled beneath it.

  It stands to reason that if I haven’t heard from Mum, her clients haven’t either.

  I enter the house. It’s as silent as I left it this morning and the kitchen is empty. I take a quick peek in Mum’s office. I check the living room and Mum’s bedroom. No sign of her anywhere.

  The conversation I had with her, the one I’ve been trying so hard to forget, has come back to haunt me.

  It was early this year, soon after I turned sixteen. Oscar was already in bed, asleep. It must have been about nine-thirty. A school day, I remember. I was still in my uniform. I came into the kitchen to grab an apple. Mum was wiping down the kitchen bench. “Got a few minutes, Jamie?” she asked.

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “There’s something we need to talk about. I’ll make us tea.” She flicked on the kettle and spooned mint leaves into a pot. I sat down at the kitchen table and watched her pour boiling water onto the leaves. She looked . . . sad? Yes. Nervous? Yes. That was understandable. After all, it had only been a few months since we buried Dad. But there was something else too. She seemed apologetic, though that made no sense.

  She took longer than usual to make the tea, but at last she carried the two cups over to the table and sat down at right angles to me. “It’s probably not the best time to tell you this . . . or should I say, ask you . . .” She blew on her tea. I took a careful sip of mine.

  “Dad and I had planned to have this conversation with you when you reached adulthood, after you’d finished your university studies, certainly not before you’d turned twenty-one.”

  I could see how hard it was for her to get the words out.

  She shook her head, tried again. “I mean, you’re much too young, really. But then, you were much too young to lose your dad.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “We, Dad and I, wanted to know that if something ever happened to us, if there came a time when neither one of us was around to look after Oscar, you’d be responsible for him, you’d make sure he was happy and safe.”

  I opened my mouth to reply but she held up her hand. “We never expected that anything would happen to either of us. At least, not until we were old and grey. In our minds, asking you to take on the responsibility for Oscar in the event of our illness or death was one more thing we had to sort out, like writing a will, or life insurance. Something you do once, then forget about, because death only happens to other people. But since Dad died, the possibility of me dying too seems . . . not more imminent, but real.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Jamie. I’m not planning to die any time soon. I’m planning to stick around for a long, long time. But sometimes our plans don’t match the reality. That’s why I felt I should ask you now. Will you take responsibility for Oscar after I die?”

  “Of course, of course I will,” I blurted out. But as soon as the words were out, I found myself thinking, Help! What if that happens tomorrow? How could I look after Oscar? I’m only sixteen.

  Mum ruffled my hair. “You’re a great kid, Jamie. A wonderful brother and a wonderful son.” She pulled me to her and gave me a hug.

  I hugged her back and for a moment, I didn’t want to let her go. It was bad enough losing Dad. I couldn’t bear it if I lost her too.

  “In the unlikely event that . . .” Mum broke off, sipped some tea, then stood up abruptly. “Come with me, Jamie.” She took me into her office and opened a drawer. “Worst-case scenario, you’ll find everything you need in here.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “My will and Dad’s. They’re outdated now. I need to make an appointment with the lawyer and have a new one drawn up. But this is where it will be. And a list of people who I think can help.”

  I shivered. “Like who?”

  “Selena, for one. But Jamie, this whole conversation, it’s just . . . insurance. I don’t want you to dwell on it. Now that you know where everything is, put it out of your mind.”

  That was more easily said than done. The thought of Mum’s death freaked me out then and it freaks me out now. Coping with the death of one parent is hard enough.

  But I can’t not think about Mum dying. Not when I haven’t heard from her. Not when she hasn’t made it home. I collapse onto a chair in the kitchen, my head in my hands.

  What should I do about that note from Mum’s client? I don’t want anyone knowing she’s missing. As soon as people realise Oscar and I are here alone, there’ll be social workers on the doorstep, and someone will try to take Oscar away. I can’t let that happen.

  I enter Mum’s office and look through her files. I find the contact details for “Margie” and send her a text pretending I’m Mum: Sorry I missed our session. Interstate. Family emergency. Thought I told you. Will contact you when I return.

  Much as I dislike the subterfuge, my priority is protecting Oscar. I’ve heard nightmarish stories about the abuse of kids in government care. And even if Oscar was well looked after, it’s my responsibility to look after him. I promised my mum. And anyway, we shouldn’t be parted.

  While I’m here, I hunt for a phone book. Mum left in such a hurry that she forgot to give me Selena’s number. And I forgot to ask. Maybe Mum assumed I had it. But I can’t find a phone book. Not on her desk and not in any of the drawers. The numbers Mum needs are probably stored on her phone. I check out the White Pages online. Selena’s name comes up blank. Maybe she doesn’t have a landline. Or maybe she just likes her privacy. I rub my eyes.

  Where are you, Mum?

  I try not to think of worst-case scenarios. She’s probably fine. Besides, I can’t afford to feel sorry for myself, or waste time I don’t have.

  I make a mental list of everything I have to do. First, food.

  There’s not much in the fridge and even less in the pantry. I
open the freezer. Not bad. There are a few cakes and several containers of soup, each labelled in Mum’s neat handwriting. I take out a fruitcake and a container of lentil soup and leave them on the bench to thaw.

  I phone Natalie to see if she can give Oscar a lift to swimming, but her phone goes to voicemail. I don’t leave a message.

  Next, I phone Michael to let him know I won’t be coming to all-abilities basketball. “Sorry for the late notice,” I say. “Family emergency. I have to look after Oscar.”

  “Everything okay?” Michael is one of the most caring people I’ve ever met. “Anything I can help with?”

  “Nah. My mum had to go to Perth for the weekend and she got stuck there because of the storm.” I can’t bring myself to admit she hasn’t made contact and I’ve no idea where she is. Saying it out loud might make it real.

  “Can’t you bring Oscar with you to the game?”

  “Sorry, I have to take him swimming.”

  “Can’t he miss swimming?” Michael asks. “We really need you.”

  Oscar can and will miss swimming. But getting him to Centenary Park would be a nightmare, and Oscar’s too young to play in the over-fifteens. He’d hate sitting on the sidelines. He’d have nothing to do but make trouble.

  “Sorry, mate. Can’t you ask Lucy?”

  “I guess I’ll have to,” Michael says.

  I try phoning Mum. If she’s still stuck in Perth, why the hell isn’t she answering her phone? I’ll take the silence to mean she’s on her way home and incommunicado. But I wish she’d sent me a text to let me know.

  I turn back to dinner. How does Mum heat up soup? Does she put it on a low heat, or a high heat? I’ve never paid attention.

  “Where’s Mum?” asks Oscar.

  “Still in Perth,” I say.

  “Because of the storm?”

  “Because of the storm.” No need for him to know that the storm is over.

  He’s sitting at the kitchen table. I cut a thick slab of fruitcake, put it on a plate and slide it towards him.

  He takes a bite. “It’s cold,” he complains. It’s true, the cake has only partly thawed.