“You smoke?” I say angrily. “After you told me off about the cigarette packs?”
She doesn’t even bother to lift her eyes to look at me. “I trow mine in bin. You maybe on my grass.”
“I don’t smoke!”
“You good girl zen. Smoking for girl, it look like street woman. No nice.”
I read an entire passage from the Koran in my mind to restrain myself from throwing her cigarette packet across the room.
“So why didn’t you smoke the other time? Why did you hide it?”
“Because. . .”
“Because why?”
I’m standing up now, my hands on my hips in a defiant body pout. She avoids my glare, puts her cigarette down in the ashtray and sighs uncomfortably.
“I . . . no . . . I no want your mum say I bad lady. Zen . . . zen she no let you come.”
She finally looks at me. I never noticed that her eyes have flickers of grey and hazelnut in them. Or that her wrinkles are like a confused map from a street directory, roads and boulevards intersecting in strange patterns. I wonder which line represents her loves. Which ones represent her joys, her laughs, her intimacies, her sorrows. How does it feel to lose your babies alone like that? What does it feel like, I wonder, to be over seventy years old and to have buried the man you woke up beside almost every morning of your life?
24
The following month, I go out rollerblading at St Kilda beach with Adam, Josh, Eileen and Simone on Saturday. It’s October and the weather has warmed up and we can do more outdoor things together. My dad has agreed to drop me off in front of Luna Park. It takes him the entire stretch of Punt Road to get through his Golden Rules of Visiting St Kilda.
First he warns me not to use the toilets in McDonald’s. Then it’s about touching syringes, which he must think is my weekend pastime. Then it’s drinking anything but bottled water, avoiding waiting for my friends on any street corner or kerbs, and making sure we comply with pedestrian footpath etiquette and rollerblade to the right. There’s a little bit about talking to strangers, checking for foreign objects if we decide to sit in the sand, and dogs dribbling saliva on us. By the time we reach Luna Park I’m begging him to relax. So he gives me a harassed sigh and I cop the Who’s-been-living-longer? lecture.
When I join the others the first thing we do is argue about who’s going to win the World Cup soccer over coffee and chocolate éclairs at a cake shop on Acland Street. Then we decide to walk over to St Kilda esplanade and burn the calories off with an hour of rollerblading. On the way, we pass through the park in front of Luna Park.
“Who’s up for the roller coaster?” Josh asks with a mischievous grin.
Eileen, Simone and I look at each other, our eyes gleaming in excitement. The next thing we know, we’re waiting in line.
“Front row or back?” Adam asks.
“Front,” Simone says. “It’s scarier because you can see the dips.”
“Nah!” I cry. “The back is better. It’s bumpier. The carriage lifts up on all the dips and drops.”
We decide to go with the back end of the ride. Eileen moves in to sit beside me, leaving Simone available for Josh to sit next to. Simone hops in and Josh follows quickly after her. Adam sits behind Eileen and me and keeps poking his head between us, trying to scare us before the ride begins.
“Did you hear about how it went off the track three years ago and those people were thrown off and they had to close the ride down? Guts and entrails everywhere.”
“Ooh, we’re shivering with fear,” I say.
“You chicks will be screaming your heads off the second the ride starts.”
We both turn around and hit him.
A guy called Gary hops on to the ride and takes his position in the middle carriage, manoeuvring the controls.
“Hi guys,” he says, grinning at us. “Ready to have some fun?”
“Yeah!” we shout. It’s like we’re ten years old again.
“You scared?”
“No!”
The ride starts. It’s obvious Gary regrets ever letting us on board as Simone, Eileen and I just about bust everybody’s eardrums with our tonsil work. I can hear Adam yelling, “Typical chicks!” Even while we’re on an amusement park ride Eileen and I don’t give up the chance to advocate for equal opportunity and scream out to him to shut up with his macho sexism, but we can’t really convey our thesis effectively given we’re being zoomed up and down a track at a speed that is making us wish we’d worn sports bras and gelled our hair down more – or in my case pinned my hijab on tighter.
When the ride ends, we stagger away, clutching our stomachs and regretting the chocolate éclairs.
“You girls are wimps!” Adam cries.
“The three of you just about gave me tinnitus!” Josh says.
Simone bats her eyelashes at him. “Who us? No! We were just exercising our vocal cords. Anyway, speaking of being scared, I noticed you tensing your feet against the floor pretty tightly when we were going down the roller coaster. Wouldn’t have been itchy feet, would it?”
She flashes him a flirtatious grin and he smiles back at her. If this were a musical they’d both break out into a corny song and dance now.
The guys then go to the toilet, giving Eileen and me a chance to share a quick debriefing session with Simone.
“Did he hold your hand on the scary parts of the ride?”
“How close were you sitting?”
“Was there any physical contact?”
“Yeah! We were pressed up next to each other. He smells so good! And Josh actually – oh my God – he actually winked at me when we were about to go down one of the tracks!”
“Excellent sign!” Eileen cries. “Flirtatious but slightly subtle.”
“Any good convo?”
“Like we could really talk on the ride! But he did say one thing. When we were getting out he looked at me and said: Your hair’s pretty neat. It didn’t even get out of place. Do you think it means anything?”
“He likes your hair!” Eileen cries happily.
“This guy is dropping hints, Simone! First he makes the effort to sit next to you – I saw him step in before Eileen or I could. Definitely a big sign. Secondly, he winks at you! Eyeball action is always a point scorer. And thirdly, he’s throwing you a compliment! Since when do guys notice our hair unless there’s an ulterior motive?”
“This is unreal! I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight! Hey, they’re coming back. Quick! Change the topic. . .”
We have a perfect afternoon. We walk down to the end of the pier and sit on the rocks, letting the waves spray us as we play truth or dare. Except there aren’t many dares you can perform when you’re stuck on rocks, so we stick to interrogating each other about our crushes, enemies, favourite teachers and worst pick-up lines. We rollerblade along the bike track, humiliating ourselves by falling over each other more times than we can count. We eat hazelnut gelato, get chased by a German shepherd, and don’t stop laughing. It’s like one of those scenes from a feel-good Hollywood movie. Where everybody is happy and nobody’s hair frizzes in the wind. Where it doesn’t rain, your shoes stay comfortable all day, and everybody’s jokes are funny. It’s so good, I even think there’s a possibility the chocolate won’t go straight to our hips.
On Sunday afternoon I go for a jog around the block and come back feeling really pumped up with energy. I feel so good I decide to visit Mrs Vaselli because I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks.
I arrive and she sits in her rocking chair puffing away. Because it’s just Mrs Vaselli and me, I take my hijab off and sit down. She looks at me and she makes the sign of the cross.
“You stupid girl for hide your beautiful hair.”
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically.
But then she pauses and says something that really touches me. “But you
r choice in end, I guessing. Oh well. No one should telling no one what to do when come to God. You no have salvation but you laugh a lot. Maybe Jesus let you in.”
She says it so solemnly, so sincerely, as she puffs away and stares at the ceiling, that I have this urge to hug her. We talk about general stuff. She keeps avoiding mentioning children so I bring it up because I’m not about to pretend I’m not a major stickybeak.
“Mrs Vaselli, don’t you . . . Mum mentioned once that you have a son.”
She coughs and splatters on her cigarette and takes a quick sip of water. She gives me the silent treatment again, only this time it lasts for ten minutes.
“You no mind business . . . but you . . . you annoy me wiz your question all time . . . huh! My son, he marry Jehovah’s Witness ten year ago. He conversion. I no speak him since.” Her lips are pursed together as though the topic is now closed.
I feel as though Muhammad Ali has punched me in the chest. I was expecting death or kidnapping or abandonment. Something uncontrollable, outside her power. Never in a trillion years could I have guessed that she would have deliberately cut herself off from her only kid.
“Where does he live?”
“Tasmania.”
“But, but . . . you’re alone, Mrs Vaselli! Why don’t you speak to him? He’s your only son! You’ve got nobody else!”
“Amal!” she yells, her voice bitter. “None business, I tell you. You no understand. He break my heart. Break my heart! Run off wiz zis girl and he conversion! You born Islam. You no fault really. How you know better? But he? After all do for him. He cut his papa heart. We give our life for him. Every day my husband working and money for school and clothe and food and we give him anyzing. He give us back shock. We trying nice Greek girl for him and he marry her and divorcing after fifteen year. No children. She no can have ze children. Cause problem. I say be patient. Have enough. Jesus work way we no know.” Her voice is soft now. She’s holding her cigarette and the end burns until the ash falls off on to the table, but she doesn’t notice. “I no know what happen. He no tell us. One minute zey here for dinner and laughing and joking. Next minute zey divorcing and we never see her again.”
I lean over towards her, looking her in the eye. “Do you miss him?”
She looks sadly back at me. “Yes.”
“Then can’t you forgive him?”
She shakes her head and slowly butts out her cigarette. “See zis ash, Amal? Za cigarette it burns, za ash falls, some bits solid zen zey fall apart, zey disappearing into tiny bits and zey fading away. To making it whole again you needing to go and finding each bit and putting togezer again, yes?”
She glances sidelong at me. “Too many bits, Amal. Zey gone, zey disappeared, zey faded. Zat is it, Amal. I no knowing how to put it all togezer again.”
In the evening I’m doing homework on my bed when I get a text message from Adam: WHAT DO U THINK OF SIMONE & JOSH AS A COUPLE?
I leap off the bed in an excited panic attack because something of this magnitude cannot involve a solo response. It requires a well-thought strategy, external contribution and a huge debriefing session with a friend. It would be an act of criminality against Simone to simply message back the first thing that pops into my head. So I call Eileen.
“He wants to know what I think about Simone and Josh! Oh my God, Josh likes Simone! Oh my God! He’s going to ask her out. I just know it. Then she’ll have a boyfriend. Suck eggs to her mum and dad! Oh my God, he must have set up Adam to ask me! Eileen! What do I text back?”
“Calm down, will you. Deep breaths. We can’t do this on impulse. We have to think it through – Oh my God! She’ll be over the moon! – OK, focus! Let’s focus!”
“OK, we’re focused.”
“Now, we don’t want him to think we’ve been thinking about it. That makes Simone look desperate. At the same time, we don’t want him to think it never occurred to us. Because that would turn Josh off.”
“So do you reckon Josh is behind the message or is Adam just sharing his own thoughts with me? Because it makes a difference.”
“Hmm, well, I reckon the reply should take into account either scenario. How about, Hmm – that implies thoughtful consideration but not premeditation – they do seem to connect.”
“Connect is the wrong word. Too Cleo. A guy reading it might think it’s too serious. Having a connection. You marry people you connect with. We don’t want to scare him off.”
“Good point.”
“How about: Hmm, they do seem to get along?”
“Yeah! Simple but not too bloated with Cleo meaning. Why not throw a question back at him?”
“Brilliant! Put the ball back in his court!”
“Like: I don’t know, what do you think?”
“Get rid of I don’t know?”
“Yeah, instead just ask what do you think?”
“OK, so all up: Hmm, they do seem to get along. What do you think?”
“Perfect. It’s positive but not so enthusiastic as to be desperate. Also invites him to dig up more information from his side. OK, send it now.”
“Now?”
“Actually no. We’ve got to think about you too! If you reply instantly, he might read into it. As in, Oh I can communicate with Amal at the drop of a hat. She’s waiting around for my call. It’s late on a Sunday night and she’s up waiting for me to contact her.”
“Yeah, but we’re not going out. We’re friends, so why would he read into it?”
“You’re not friends like me or Simone are with him, are you? If it was us, no big deal. If we look desperate or lonely or boring in front of him we couldn’t care less. But you still want him to have the best impression of you, don’t you?”
“I’m not sending it for another half an hour.”
“That’s the way. OK, let me know what happens.”
After I hang up I listen to music for half an hour, watching the seconds on my watch until I want to throw it down the toilet bowl from frustration. Finally, forty-seven minutes after he sent me the orginal SMS, I text back the agreed message. Seconds later, he replies: GOOD 1. CAN’T TALK NOW, I’M ON THE PHONE. WHAT TOOK U SO BLOODY LONG? TALK 2MORROW.
Typical.
25
Why oh why do guys do that? Bring something up and then ignore it until you want to grab them by their shoulders and scream at them to talk, open up, share! Eileen and I are literally two nanoseconds away from cornering Adam, tackling him to the ground and forcing him to discuss the message with us. But, in an act of extreme will power, we don’t. Instead, we pretend to have forgotten all about the events that transpired last night and shoot some hoops with Adam and Josh on the basketball court at lunch time. Josh is the one who makes the suggestion and Eileen and I force Simone to play along. Usually Simone is allergic to any form of sport or activity which requires her to move because she thinks it draws attention to her body and makes her look fat and clumsy. Eileen and I hint that if she doesn’t play with us Josh will think she’s lazy. It’s such a low, cheap shot but we have the ends-justify-the-means concept firmly in mind with this project.
It’s so much fun. Simone surprises herself and us and turns out to be a really good goal shooter. Josh seems impressed. After her tenth score he says, “So all the times we’ve been hanging out on our arses on the oval you’ve been a star basket player and didn’t even tell us? We could have been playing some ball!” Simone blushes and grins and of course misses the next couple of goals.
The best part of the entire hour is when I notice Tia, Claire and Rita sitting on one of the benches beside the court. Tia has her arms crossed and looks like she’s accidentally eaten a cockroach. Her face is twisted with annoyance and disgust as she looks at Simone and Josh laughing and flirting on the court. I make eye contact with her and flash her a gigantic grin. She raises her eyebrows haughtily at me and turns away.
Sw
eet.
Disgraceful. Torturous. Sadistic. Not a word all day. Finally, in the evening, Adam calls me at home. Before I have a chance to launch into a lengthy deconstruction of his text message, Adam tells me that his mum called him last night to ask him what size he wears in shirts so she can send him a birthday present. Adam’s not impressed.
“At least she sets her goals high. She expects to erase ten years of not being there for me by sending me some polo tops. I’d say that’s pretty ambitious thinking.”
“Was it out of the blue? Does she usually call you? I remember you said she sends you postcards.”
“Since I was about eleven she’s being calling me on my birthday and at Christmas. So what’s your opinion on world soccer?”
“Would you prefer she ignored you?”
“Why would she think I cared? I have more interest in what’s going on in the life of our school lollipop lady than my mum’s. So, answer me. Soccer?”
“Cool sport. Maybe she’s . . . trying to make amends. Say sorry in her own way. How do you feel about it all?”
“Amal! Are you trying to do a let’s express our feelings thing here?”
“No.”
“Yeah right! Amal, puh-lease do not think I am about to let myself be analysed and dissected and no, don’t try to interrupt, I’m not being sexist and trying to make out that I can’t talk about my feelings because I’m a boy but that you can because you’re a girl. I’d really rather talk about soccer at the moment.”
“But I’m curious. I want to know what happened. Please. I promise I won’t give you advice or anything remotely resembling a pep talk.”
“Fine. It was ten years ago. I was seven. It was a rainy day. It’d been a good day. In show and tell everybody had to bring family pictures so I brought along some happy shots of me and my parents at the zoo, at the park, feeding ducks and all the usual crap. Dad picked me up from school on his way home from work because Mum apparently couldn’t make it. He bought me a McDonald’s junior burger meal and I can still remember how it tasted. I got home and it was silent. No Mum waiting for me. No dinner cooking in the kitchen. No Bold and the Beautiful or some other dumb-arse soapie blasting on the television. And after that, the silence never went away. . .”