The Lines We Cross

  “You can talk about asylum seekers gaming the system, but can you leave this particular restaurant out of it?”

  He throws a glance my way, expecting me to thank him.

  It’s like the feeling you get after a swim. Your ears are blocked and then suddenly you’re walking along and pop, they clear and you can hear again, find your balance. Dad’s words pierce the air bubbles trapped inside my head and I can finally hear what he’s saying.

  And I realize that I don’t want any part of it.

  The reporter presses Dad, arguing that the restaurant will make the piece stronger. Jeremy and Margaret nod in agreement. Dad seems torn, looking at me and then back at the reporter.

  “Michael, talk to your dad,” Margaret urges me.

  The reporter overhears, jerking his head to face me. “You’re Alan’s son? It’d be good to get a young person’s point of view.”

  Suddenly the camera starts to roll and the reporter is asking me “as one of the organization’s youngest members,” for my opinion on asylum seekers and Aussie Values’ platform generally. It all happens so quickly. I try to gather my thoughts, ignoring the look of apprehension on Dad’s face.

  The reporter asks me again. “So what’s your opinion about it all?”

  “I guess I feel that there’s a racist way to be worried about the economy, or people dying at sea, and there’s a nonracist way,” I start, looking the camera squarely in the lens. I feel myself gaining momentum, as though with each word that I utter I’m throwing off a rock in a backpack that’s been weighing me down. “We’ve signed up to international laws.”

  I can hear Jeremy and Margaret draw in sharp breaths and whisper my name under their breaths, trying to stop me. Dad’s looking at me, his eyebrows knitted in confusion, but I feel an unassailable urge to keep going.

  “Legally, we have to help these people. Instead, we lock them up. We abuse them. Then we bring in laws so that we can jail people who report the abuse. I don’t get how we can let that happen in a democracy.”

  “So then you don’t support your father’s organization?”

  Dad’s eyes plead with me.

  “Sorry, Dad,” I say. “But Aussie Values is all about being angry, defensive, and paranoid. You said that bad things happen when good people remain silent. So I’m speaking up. I’m against your organization and everything it stands for.”

  Irfan is pacing up and down in front of the counter, running his fingers through his hair, muttering under his breath. Baba’s sitting in the ridiculous velvet-cushioned throne, nervously jiggling his leg up and down, smoking in urgent, short drags.

  “Mina, we don’t have to talk to that reporter, do we?” Mum asks, gently placing her hand on Baba’s arm.

  “Of course not! They can all wait outside as long as they like. They’ll give up eventually.”

  “I can’t live with myself if they’re sent back,” Baba says, so quietly I almost don’t hear him.

  “The lawyer will help, Farshad,” Mum says brightly. Even I can tell she’s trying to put on a brave face.

  I walk over to Irfan. “What happened? Is it true? Did they take them to Villawood?”

  He nods slowly.

  “Who came?”

  “Immigration officers. I’ll never forget the look on their faces, Mina.” The words catch in his throat. “We’re in trouble too,” he adds eventually. “Your dad called a lawyer. Hopefully she can fix this mess.”

  I sneak a peek out the window from behind the blinds. To my surprise, Michael’s on camera, talking to the reporter. I see his dad too, but he looks devastated as he watches Michael. I don’t know what to make of it all.

  We’re supposed to open in an hour. There are too many reservations to contemplate canceling, so Baba, Irfan, and Mum head back to the kitchen to start preparing. I call in some extra help from our list of part-timers and then start setting tables.

  I feel numb. I can’t see how Michael and I can pretend as though we exist in a bubble, when every moment we’re together his family threatens to burst it.

  But the thought of saying good-bye to him hurts so badly that I want to vomit.

  I keep checking what’s happening outside. Eventually, the sidewalk is clear and they appear to have all left.

  I grab my phone from off the charger and switch it on to call Michael. I see that I’ve missed his calls and texts. I go to a corner of the restaurant where I’m out of hearing and call him.

  “Where have you been?” he asks in a panic. “I’m so sorry. Some members went behind Dad’s back. Are you all okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re okay.” But then I start to cry silently. I collapse into a chair and try to stop the tears. “They took away Adnan, Mustafa, and Mariam. I thought you said your dad was going to take care of it?”

  “I thought so too,” he says quietly.

  We go to bed early. I expect a restless night but I’m out before I know it and wake up in the exact same spot I fell asleep in.

  I’m lying awake in bed, trying to buy some time before I have to get ready for school, when Baba receives a telephone call: Tim, from the pizza shop next door.

  The next few minutes are chaos. Mum rushes to the bedroom to quickly get dressed, Baba’s looking for his keys as he argues with me, insisting that I will not miss school, while I insist that I will. He decides there’s no time to draw the fight out and orders me to bring my schoolbag along just in case. He’s so distracted that he doesn’t realize that I’m wearing jeans. I don’t even bother bringing my bag. Mum’s ready and the three of us race outside, into the car, and speed off to the restaurant.

  Visually, the graffiti is quite impressive.

  Fuck Off We’re Full on the front door. Halal Funds ISIS on the window. Well, the window that isn’t smashed through with a brick.

  “Don’t you love how they’ve made halal a noun?” I say dryly to Mum as we survey the damage. “It’s like halal’s a person. Some bearded, hairy monster in a cave somewhere, counting the money he’s making from the labels on Vegemite.”

  Irfan is on the phone with the insurance company, while Baba and Mum take photos of the tables close to the windows that have been showered with shattered glass. I finish taking photos of the graffiti on the front windows and then go back inside.

  We sit down, unsure if we’re supposed to clean up or wait for instructions from the insurer. Baba gets up to make some tea as we wait for Irfan to end the call.

  Mum’s phone rings. She rummages in her bag and takes it out.

  “It’s Emily,” she says. “I’ll call her—”

  I grab it from Mum’s hand, answer the call, and dangle it back in front of her. If looks could kill.

  “Hi, Emily. Yes, I am fine. I am good. Yes, we had to come here to the restaurant this morning for something important. No, everything is fine, thank you.”

  She goes on like that for another minute. When she hangs up, I shake my head at her.

  “You could have told her, Mum.”

  “Why? So she can see that we are nothing but problems? We are on the TV and speaking to police and sitting here in our own restaurant surrounded by broken glass …” She takes a deep breath, tries to compose herself. “She has enough to deal with anyway.”

  She scratches at her stomach and tries to get comfortable.

  “Look, don’t worry about all of this.” She smiles at me, bright and big and reassuring, and it pulls at my heart, the way she’s trying for my sake, because my mum doesn’t do big smiles, not unless something’s wrong. She’s always left her big smiles for moments when she thinks I need to be protected.

  I want to tell her that I’m grown up now. I’m not that little girl on the boat who can be distracted with a story, or song, or forced big smile.

  Baba returns with tea and we clasp the small glasses like they contain the solution to all our problems. We sit in silence until Baba’s raspy voice interrupts our thoughts.

  “I love this country,” he says. “But I don’t feel it’s mine bec
ause I must tell people I love it. That’s a fact.” He shakes his head angrily. Mum is sitting, not saying a word.

  “We refugees are different from immigrants, Mina. The immigrant’s heart is caught between the struggle of wanting to stay or return, return or stay. The uncertainty never stops. Every decision is shadowed by what they are missing out on back home. And when they return to their birthplace, they want to come back here. And when they come back here, they wonder if they should have stayed. But us? We have been robbed of those choices. I cannot return to my homeland. And so I must simply stay in somebody else’s homeland, as an outsider and a guest. I am the guest who brings a gift of food to their host. Except what I think more and more is that they do not eat the food, they eat us here.”

  I peer into his face, frowning. “What do you mean?”

  “When they don’t like the taste of us, when we have too much flavor and spice, and do not follow their recipe, we are like indigestion, and they want to vomit us back to where we came from.”

  “Even if you’re right, Farshad,” Mum suddenly speaks up, “don’t you dare lose hope. Don’t you dare hand your power over to these people.” She takes his hand, places it on her stomach, and looks him straight in the eye. “Not just because you let them win, but because despair is a luxury people like us cannot afford.”

  I grab Mum’s phone when she’s in the bathroom. I take down Emily’s and Rojin’s numbers and then send them a text from my phone, letting them know what’s happened but reassuring them that everything is okay.

  Irfan emerges and tells us we can start cleaning. Baba insists that Mum remain seated, but she waves him off, grabs the broom, and starts sweeping with such urgent, fierce strokes that we don’t dare argue with her. Baba shifts his attention to me and tells me I should go to school, but then he sees the look on my face and doesn’t bother continuing.

  “Let’s hope it’s a boy,” he mutters to no one in particular, and Mum and I lock eyes and share a brief smile.

  “Shocking,” I hear coming from a voice near the front door.

  We all look up. It’s Tim, from the pizza shop.

  “Too bad there are no cameras,” he says, shaking his head as he surveys the mess.

  “Yeah. Too bad,” I say quietly.

  “The writing outside looks very bad for us,” Baba tells him. “Very bad for business.”

  Tim smiles and holds up a bag. “There’s a trick to removing it,” he says. “I’ve brought over the magic tools. If we start now, we should have it done in no time.”

  Dad hasn’t spoken a word to me since the interview. I tried to say something in the car on the way home but he asked me to leave it for now. His words didn’t cut me. It was the politeness, the civility of his tone that hurt, that told me this was as bad as things had ever been between us. It was just after six, and Nathan and Mum were sitting at the dining table doing a five-hundred-piece puzzle of a fighter jet.

  Dad muttered hello to Mum and went straight to the study. He closed the door behind him. Mum stood up and anxiously asked me what had happened. I didn’t know where to start. I shook my head and went upstairs. I heard Mum knocking on the study door and Dad telling her he needed some time alone.

  I tossed and turned all night. I heard the study door open and footsteps up the stairs. The floorboards outside our bedrooms creaked as Dad walked to his bedroom.

  I checked the time. It was three in the morning.

  Mina’s not at school. I call her and leave messages. Paula does too. But there’s no response. I stare at a selfie we took and my insides ache as I wonder if she’s okay. I want so badly just to hold her.

  I go to the café to get a coffee at lunchtime. Paula, Jane, and Sandra, a girl from twelfth grade, are on café duty. I stand in the queue, watching Paula and Jane try to cooperate as they take orders and make and serve the coffees. The tension between them is like a fourth person in the small space behind the counter, rubbing up close to them, bumping and nudging them whenever they’re forced to communicate.

  Paula’s eyes widen when she sees me. “Did you hear? Mina sent me a text just before lunch. The restaurant was vandalized overnight. She’s there cleaning up with her parents.”

  “No, I didn’t hear.” I badger her with questions. Who vandalized it? How bad is the damage? What exactly did they do?

  But there’s one question I don’t ask her, and that’s Why didn’t Mina contact me?

  “I said I’m going after school to help them with the cleaning,” Paula says.

  “Is that an invitation? Because I can’t exactly show up there, can I?” I snap, immediately regretting it. “Sorry.”

  “No prob,” she says brightly.

  “What a freaking mess,” I mutter.

  The guy behind me tells me to hurry up. I order my coffee and wait at the side.

  Jane’s helping Sandra make the coffees. She’s been listening to Paula and me but trying not to make it obvious.

  I hear Paula make a correction on one of the orders and Jane says, “Got it. One sugar, not two. I’m coming with you to Mina’s, by the way.”

  Paula stares at her for a moment. It’s a stare to run away from. But Jane stands tall and holds her gaze. I can tell she wants to speak but I think just meeting Paula’s eyes takes enough out of her for now.

  And then Paula shrugs and says casually, “I’ll pass by your locker before I leave.”

  I check my phone again. Still nothing from Mina.

  The cars are parked in the garage but when I enter the house it’s eerily quiet. I throw my bag at the bottom of the stairs, grab a drink from the fridge, and check my phone again. Finally! Mina’s sent me a text.

  I feel a pang as I read her text. There’s nothing of her usual warmth. But then I feel stupid. It’s not exactly the time for flirtatious messages!

  I hear Mum call out to me from the family room. I walk over and she’s sitting on the couch beside Dad. Nathan’s been dispatched to a friend’s house for a playdate. They say, “We need to talk,” and it’s like accidentally taking a sip of milk that’s gone off: An instant feeling of nausea takes hold of me.

  I stare blankly at them and then sit down.

  “We can’t understand why you would betray us,” Dad begins. “Publicly.”

  “Why you would disrespect us like that,” Mum adds.

  I don’t say anything. The look on Dad’s face tells me he has something to say. I just know he’s been deliberating over every word, preparing his speech. I feel a moment’s pity for him.

  He clears his throat. “I dealt with my profound disappointment at you rejecting architecture, Michael,” he says, slowly and calmly. “After all the years we talked about it and planned for it. But I put my feelings aside out of respect for your choices. Then there were your doubts and questions about Aussie Values, which I addressed with patience and understanding. I spoke to Andrew and told him to leave the restaurant story alone for your sake, even though those three workers deserve to face the consequences of breaking the law. I also tried to get the reporter to tone down the story, again for your sake. I did all of this for you.” Dad’s voice breaks at this point, but he pushes on. “You publicly repudiated me, Michael. Made me look like a fool.”

  His words just sit there, suspended above us. I focus my eyes on a mark in the carpet.

  “We’re really disappointed, Michael,” Mum says.

  I sigh, and Dad says, “Well? Don’t we deserve a response?”

  “Yeah.” I sigh again. “You do. This isn’t easy, okay? A part of me regrets going against you on TV.” I pause, and choose my words carefully. I feel like a bottle brush is stuck in my throat, choking and prickling me. “But only because of how it’s made you feel. I hate hurting you.” I take a deep breath. “But another part of me doesn’t regret it. And I’m sorry that hurts you, but it’s the truth! You said this is all about something bigger than us. That it’s not about the personal.”

  “You’re twisting my words, Michael,” Dad says. “I said that in
a different context.”

  Indignation suddenly burns through me, like opening a hot oven and feeling the heat hit you in the face. “We’re talking about people here, Dad! The personal’s wrapped up with something bigger, for everybody, not just you! And it hurts, doesn’t it?”

  “You humiliated me on national television. What does it say about me and my organization if my own son doesn’t support me?”

  “I get that, okay. And I said I’m sorry. But instead of thinking about the humiliation, can’t you stop to think about the effect of what you’re saying and doing? Maybe think about why I don’t support you?”

  “Are we monsters, Michael?!” Mum says with a quivering breath.

  “No! But that’s the point, isn’t it, Mum?” I ignore the pained expression on her face. “Do you know that the restaurant was vandalized overnight? They threw a brick through the window and graffitied the front windows. Fuck Off We’re Full.”

  Mum winces. “What are you talking about, Michael?”

  “The restaurant was attacked last night. Who was it? Andrew? Somebody local, or was it rent-a-racist?”

  Dad’s face goes blank. He blinks at me, like he’s in some kind of stupor. Nostrils flared slightly, he reaches into his pocket for his phone. He takes it out and dials a number.

  “Andrew? What happened last night? Over at that Afghan restaurant?” He questions him, from this angle and that. When he ends the call, he exhales slowly, sinks his back into the couch, and looks up at the ceiling.

  “Well?” Mum asks.

  He sits up and hunches forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.

  “He’s denying it,” he says, eyes fixed on the floor, “but he sounds a little too satisfied not to be involved somehow.” Then he looks at me. “That’s not what we stand for, Michael,” he says, gently but firmly.