A Weekend with Oscar

by Robyn Bavati

  We all file into the kitchen and crowd around the spectacular cake. Zara lights the candles one by one, and we sing “Happy Birthday”.

  “Do you want to blow out the candles?” I ask Oscar.

  He nods eagerly.

  I stand behind and to one side of him, so he doesn’t see that I’m blowing too. Zara whips out her phone and snaps a photo, careful to angle the camera so that it captures Oscar alone.

  “And now,” I say theatrically, like a host on TV, “it’s time for the man of the moment to cut the cake. Ready, Oscar?”

  We hold the knife together, my hands over Oscar’s. “Make a wish,” I whisper. Oscar closes his eyes.

  Zara takes more photos, this time with Oscar in the middle and everyone else crowding around him.

  Oscar hands out slices of birthday cake on paper plates. Jason and Barney sit down to eat theirs and I pour them some juice. People help themselves to drinks, chocolate, biscuits and potato chips.

  The triple-layered birthday cake is delicious, but Oscar’s birthday is bittersweet, and not just because our mother is missing. The milestones he reaches are so different from other boys his age.

  Mum always hoped that one day Oscar would be independent, though we can’t know for sure how independent, or when that day might be. In some ways, he’ll always need looking after.

  Zara is snapping a shot of Oscar eating cake. It reminds me of a photo in the living room taken at his fifth birthday party, where he is mashing chocolate cake against his lips, a paper crown on his head. He looks so cute.

  And it occurs to me that the world is not always kind to people like Oscar who lose their cuteness when they get older. I hope that will change.

  Right now, though, Oscar is beaming. His happiness is contagious and I feel myself smiling. I’m happy for Oscar and sad for him too. But I wouldn’t change him. I can’t imagine life without him.

  Time goes faster at parties and this one’s no exception. It’s a whirlwind ride and then it’s over.

  Zara is the last to leave.

  “Thank your mum for the burgers and salad. Tell her thanks from Oscar too.” She leans into me and I put my arms around her, draw her to me. “And thank you,” I murmur, my forehead lightly touching hers.

  “Any time,” she says with a smile.

  I take a step back and gaze into her blue-gold eyes.

  Zara is so beautiful. So perfect. One minute, I’m almost ecstatic just to be near her; the next, I want her so badly it hurts.

  I’m dying to kiss her.

  “Jamie, come and do magic.” Oscar is tugging my arm. He pulls me into the living room. Zara winks at me and leaves.

  Oscar is on a high and it’s a couple of hours before he winds down. At last, he’s calm enough to get in the shower, but still excited. He stands under the stream of water, talking loudly about his party, reliving each moment. I hope he won’t be too hyped up to fall asleep.

  I needn’t have worried. As if a switch has been flipped inside him, Oscar is suddenly exhausted.

  I pull the duvet over him, like Mum always did. “Goodnight, birthday boy.”

  “It’s 364 days till my next birthday,” he says, as he closes his eyes.

  In the morning, Oscar refuses to have breakfast or brush his teeth.

  I let out a sigh. “Get dressed, Oscar.”

  He throws a tantrum. I get it. The day after the party is an anticlimax.

  “You had a fabulous party,” I remind him. “Zara took photos. We can print them in a photo book and you can look at them whenever you like.”

  He’s still throwing shoes. No point reminding him of his party now. He’s out of control.

  “Come on,” I plead. “Calm down and get ready for school.”

  He stops mid-throw and turns to look at me. “Why should I listen to you?” he says. “You’re not my mother. You’re not my father. You’re not the boss of me.”

  “You’re right, Oscar. I’m not. I’m your older brother and I’m doing my best.”

  The unexpected admission calms him down.

  “Is it still raining in Perth?” he asks me.

  The question catches me off guard. Oscar is so much smarter than I give him credit for. Though I want to protect him, I don’t want to lie to him. “No,” I say. “The rain has stopped. The storm is over.”

  Oscar goes to his room. I make myself a cup of strong coffee. It might help me get through the day because I’ve hardly slept.

  A few minutes later, Oscar emerges. He’s dressed sloppily but adequately, in track pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt only partly tucked in and a windcheater he’s put on back-to-front. He’s carrying the bag he normally takes to his swimming lessons.

  “Where’s your schoolbag?” I ask him.

  “I’m not going to school,” he says.

  I rub my eyes and decide to humour him. “Then where are you going?”

  “To Perth,” he says. “We have to find Mum.”

  I stare at Oscar, open-mouthed. My thinking has been so muddled and unproductive that it never occurred to me to go and look for Mum, and I’m amazed that Oscar has come up with the idea. He’s right, of course. There’s no point sitting around at home.

  But if I couldn’t get Oscar as far as his cooking lesson, how the hell will I get him to Perth?

  Oscar is halfway out the door.

  “Oscar, wait! We have to pack some clothes.”

  “I did,” he says, and holds up his swimming bag.

  I peer inside. He has packed a clean T-shirt, a pair of boxer shorts and his mandala colouring book. “If we’re really going to Perth, you’ll need a bit more. And I’ll have to buy tickets. We can’t get on the plane if we don’t have tickets.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “We won’t be allowed.”

  I’m thinking ahead, trying to sort out the practicalities in my head. First, money . . .

  “Listen, Oscar. Go to school today and I’ll try to book tickets for tomorr –”

  “No. Now,” says Oscar.

  I hesitate. “Okay. Maybe you’re right. The sooner we find Mum, the better.”

  I can book tickets to Perth in a matter of minutes, like Mum did when she got the call from Aunt Selena. I can’t believe that was only ten days ago – it feels like forever. If only I could turn back the clock and beg my mother not to go, tell her to bring Selena to Melbourne instead.

  When Oscar’s bus arrives, Oscar hides behind the couch and I run outside.

  “Oscar isn’t going to school today,” I tell the driver. “Or tomorrow.” I wonder if I should say more but decide not to. He’ll see for himself that he’s minus a passenger if Oscar’s not here. Explanations can always come later.

  As soon as the bus has gone, I open my laptop and check out the cheapest one-way flights to Perth, because I have no idea how long we’ll be there. I click PURCHASE, then CONTINUE, and the booking information and cost comes up on the screen. The price has jumped by $23 now that the hidden costs have been added – a $10 per person booking fee and a $3 charge for using my debit card. I double-check the booking before pressing CONFIRM, conscious of my faster-than-usual heartbeat. With one final click, I have just spent $341. That leaves only $495.45 in my account, and I don’t know how long it will have to last me.

  Light-headed and a little queasy from fear and excitement, I run to the bathroom.

  Oscar follows me. “Can we go now?”

  “Soon,” I promise. “Bring your bag and let’s see what else you need.”

  He does as I ask, and we add his toothbrush and a few more clothes.

  “I think that’s everything,” I say. “You can watch ‘SpongeBob SquarePants’ till we’re ready to leave.”

  I find my travel bag and as I toss in T-shirts, underwear, socks and trackpants, I’m making plans. From the airport, we’ll go straight to Aunt Selena’s, where I hope we’ll find answers.

  What if Selena is out? What if the blinds are down, the house deserted?

  I push the quest
ions from my mind. Now is not the time for pessimism.

  I go into the kitchen to make sandwiches for the journey. The last time we flew to Perth there was nothing but overpriced snacks on the plane that none of us wanted to eat. I open the jar of peanut butter I was saving for emergencies and spread it over thick, uneven slices of bread, press them together and cover them in plastic wrap. Not the most exciting sandwiches, but they’ll do.

  I give Oscar a pep talk before we leave.

  “You want to find Mum, right?”

  Oscar nods solemnly.

  “The trip will be long and boring. It will take all day. And you might get tired. Very tired. But you won’t be able to decide when we’re halfway there that you don’t want to go. You’ll have to do what I tell you. Okay?”

  “Okay,” says Oscar.

  “We have to walk to the train station and take two trains and then a bus, just to get to the airport, then wait till it’s time to get on the plane. And when we arrive in Perth, it will take us a long time to get to Aunt Selena’s because we’ll have to take public transport, which means more walking. I don’t want to waste money on a taxi.”

  Oscar is fiddling with the drawstring on his hoodie.

  “Did you hear what I said? Look at me, Oscar.”

  “Can we go now?” he says.

  “Promise you’ll do what I tell you and you won’t change your mind about going once we’ve left.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Do you promise? You have to promise.”

  “I promise,” he says. “Can we go now?”

  “Yes. But go to the toilet before we leave.”

  We leave with hours to spare because I’d rather be at the airport too early than risk missing the plane.

  At first Oscar keeps his promise and walks alongside me as we head to the station. It’s not until we’re two-thirds of the way there that he stops. “Will we see Uncle Roger?”

  Uncle Roger is the least of my worries. “I don’t know, Oscar.”

  Oscar starts twisting his hands, like he always does when he’s getting anxious. I’m surprised he’s even remembered that Roger left.

  “I want Mum,” he says.

  “Yes, Oscar, that’s why we’re going. So, let’s get there, okay?”

  “I’m tired,” he says.

  “Oscar, you promised. And you’re not tired. You’re just upset about Uncle Roger. That’s not the same.”

  He sits down on the pavement.

  “No, you don’t.” I try hauling him up, but he’s like a dead weight, refusing to budge.

  “Do you want to find Mum or don’t you?”

  “I do,” he says. “Hold my bag.” No point insisting he holds it himself, that would waste time. I sling his bag over my shoulder. He gets up reluctantly and I let out a sigh. It’s going to be a very long day.

  Oscar is looking out of the window as the SkyBus makes its way onto CityLink towards the airport. Much as I’d love to hear Zara’s voice, I don’t want anyone overhearing my plans. I text her instead: Heading to airport with Oscar. Flying to Perth to look for Mum.

  OMG! she texts me back. Why didn’t u tell me?

  Wasn’t planned. Bought tix this morning. Oscar’s idea.

  !!!!!!!????? Fingers crossed! Hope you find her.

  I send her a row of coloured hearts.

  Next, I text Michael: Won’t make it to basketball. Gone to Perth. Long story. Will explain when I get back.

  Lastly, I text Dan, whose answer is almost immediate: Good luck, mate!

  “Look,” says Oscar, pointing at the sign to the airport. “We’re almost there.” He is bouncing in his seat. The driver can see us in the mirror and he’s frowning.

  “Not quite, bro. Try not to bounce. The driver doesn’t like it.”

  “Why not?”

  “He just doesn’t.”

  Oscar keeps bouncing. It’s harmless but annoying, and I don’t want us to draw attention to ourselves. As far as I know, there’s nothing to stop kids from travelling interstate. Even so, I don’t want nosy adults asking questions.

  “Please stop, Oscar.” I place a restraining hand on his arm. “You want to get to Perth, don’t you?” I say softly. “You don’t want to be kicked off the bus for bad behaviour.”

  “Who will kick me off?” he asks.

  “The driver, if you don’t stop bouncing.”

  Oscar stops.

  My phone rings. It’s Zara.

  “Hey!” I feel myself smiling.

  “Good luck,” she says softly.

  My hand closes more tightly around the phone. “Wish you were with me.”

  “I’m with you in spirit. Bye,” she whispers.

  Oscar and I get off the bus at Terminal 4. I scan the board to check our gate number, then join the queue at the self-service machine to print out our boarding passes. We get a few stares from strangers – it’s something you never get used to. I try not to catch anyone’s eye. I don’t want anyone wondering what I’m doing with Oscar. People rarely realise I’m his brother, even though in some ways we do look alike. They can’t see past his Down syndrome features to the family resemblance underneath.

  As soon as I have our boarding passes, we line up at security.

  “I’m hungry,” says Oscar. I give him a sandwich, which he munches as we make our way to the gate.

  On the plane, I let him sit by the window. I’m in the middle seat, squashed between Oscar and a middle-aged woman who reeks of perfume.

  I heave a sigh of relief and let myself relax as the plane taxis down the runway. We made it. We’re on the plane. There’s nothing more I can do till we land in Perth.

  A gust of warm air greets us as we disembark. Winter in Perth means T-shirt weather during the day and a jacket or windcheater at night. It’s 5.40 in the evening and the sun is just beginning to set. By the time we make our way to Aunt Selena’s in Wembley Downs – two bus rides with a twelve-minute walk in between that takes twenty, and a five-minute walk at the end that takes ten – it’s almost eight in the evening. It’s 10 pm in Melbourne and, as our biological clocks are still on Melbourne time, we’re both grumpy and exhausted.

  Oscar cheers up a little at the sight of the familiar house, though it’s shrouded in darkness. Aunt Selena could be out. Or she might have had an early night and gone to bed. I hate the thought of waking her up.

  Oscar reaches for the doorbell.

  “Wait, let’s knock first.” I knock, gently at first, then louder. I strain my ears for the sound of movement from within but can’t hear a thing.

  “Okay, Oscar. You can ring the doorbell.”

  He presses the buzzer and a tinny tune resonates from inside the house.

  He presses again.

  Still no answer.

  After standing on the doorstep for what must be five minutes, I have to accept that no one is home.

  “Wait here, Oscar. Do not move. I’ll see if I can find an open window.”

  Oscar is too tired to argue. He slumps down onto the doorstep without a word.

  There are no lights on in or around Selena’s property, and the streetlights don’t reach the garden at the back. The garage door is closed; there’s no way of knowing whether Selena’s car is in there or not.

  I stumble my way along the side of the house through overgrown grass till my eyes, aided by a sliver of moon, get used to the dark. I edge my way around the back wall and reach the window of the small study that Oscar and I usually stay in when we come to visit. It’s shut tight. I keep on going. The next window belongs to the guestroom where Mum and Dad used to sleep. I remember Uncle Roger telling me that it’s called a hopper window. It opens inwards. Convenient for burglars and thieves!

  I’m in luck. The hopper window is open – just a fraction, but enough. With a little effort, I should be able to push it open all the way.

  I hesitate. It’s hard to believe that I’m about to break into a house for the second time in less than a week, but at least the first time, when Oscar
locked me out, it was my own house I was breaking into. This is different, but I don’t see that I have much choice. I hope Selena won’t mind.

  I push the window. It’s stuck. I push it again, straining with the effort. The window gives. Soon I’m climbing through and tumbling down the other side.

  The room smells of Mum. It can’t be too long since she was here.

  I turn on the light in the hallway, make my way to the front of the house, open the door and bring Oscar inside.

  We’re too tired to bother undressing or brushing our teeth. The couch in the study transforms into a double bed. I pull it open, grab some pillows from the guestroom, yank off my shoes and lie down in the darkness.

  “Leave the light on,” says Oscar.

  “I’m too tired to get up.” I’m even too tired to text Zara.

  “I’m scared of the dark.”

  “You turn it on, then.” My eyes are already closing.

  Oscar gets up, turns on the light in the hallway and lies down beside me, the door wide open.

  I don’t know how long I’ve slept. It’s pitch black outside when I’m woken by Oscar calling out and writhing in pain. He’s sitting up in bed, clutching his stomach.

  “What is it, Oscar?”

  Tears slide down his cheeks.

  “Did you eat something?”

  He nods and points to the floor. It’s littered with crumbs and scrunched-up paper.

  I get out of bed, turn on the light and pick up the offending wrapper. It’s an empty packet of Jam fancies. “Where did you find this?”

  “In the pantry.”

  “How many were in it?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “How many, Oscar?”

  “All of them.”

  “Jeez, Oscar! You know you’re not supposed to do that.”

  “I was hungry,” he whimpers.

  I read the ingredients on the packet – the words “milk solids” written in bold. Yep, that would do it. I can’t blame Oscar for being hungry. It must have been hours since he ate. But a whole packet of Jam fancies would be enough to make him sick even if he wasn’t lactose intolerant.

  Oscar is crying louder now. How can Aunt Selena sleep through this? I wonder if she’s going deaf. Either that, or she’s a very deep sleeper.