Zac and Mia

  In a street next to mine, there’s a man whose arm was ripped off by a meat-packing machine long ago. In primary school, we’d wonder about him—how does he tie shoelaces? Eat his dinner?—more with curiosity than horror. We’d try to glimpse him in his garden, watching his sleeve sway as he watered his lawn. I remember, too, the girl in kindy who was born with stubs for fingers. And on TV last year, after the Olympics wound down, there was a whole army of Paralympians marching and wheeling across the screen. I didn’t pay much attention at the time.

  We’re all just crabs, marching. So many missing pieces.

  I switch off the TV and check the fridge. I check my mobile phone again. Nothing.

  Twenty-four hours are easy to pass now I know how.

  31

  Mia

  I take my first unaided step, but no one’s here to see it. I take two more, then grab for the kitchen bench. Almost eighteen and learning to walk again. It’s got to be harder than the first time.

  Mum’s at work, but it’s Zac I want to share this with. Look, no hands! Zac would get what a big deal it is.

  In the last week or so, there have been other things I’ve wanted to tell him. Mostly small stuff, like a song on a radio, or a cooking show that used dukkah in a recipe. This morning I made pikelets, thinking of him. I almost texted him a photo.

  I didn’t, though. I thought it might be weird, after two months of silence, to SMS a photo of a pikelet.

  Zac had phoned and texted every day for ages before giving up. I should’ve replied but I didn’t. I had nothing worth saying. Empty. Still empty. No one wants to hear that.

  But today, I’ve taken three steps without crutches and I’m busting to tell him.

  I sit down and draft a message. I draft at least ten of them, deleting them all. One hundred and sixty characters won’t do what I want them to.

  So, for the first time in over two months, I lock the front door behind me. I walk to the post office using my crutches—a kilometre without them would be way too ambitious. I wear the wig and a hat, in case someone recognises me.

  In the post office, I take my time inspecting the tacky postcard display. I choose one with a photo of a river and a black swan.

  Hey Zac

  How is the olive farm? How’s the little alpaca? Or is it a big alpaca? How are the ferrets and the crazy chickens? And how’s Bec? Did she have a boy or a girl?

  In four days I turn eighteen, like you. I’m still getting the hang of this walking business, so I’ll play it safe and stay home. Clubbing could be dangerous.

  I signed back into Facebook the other day. Where were you, hey? Guess you were sleeping, like normal people … You haven’t updated in a while. Are you over it now, or too busy with year 12? Either way, sign back in, OK? Who else will I chat to at stupid hours? Good luck with your mock exams.

  Mia

  I stick a stamp to it, but there are too many reasons not to drop it into the box. What if Zac’s mum reads the postcard and doesn’t pass it on? What if he doesn’t miss me the way I miss him? What if he hates me for not responding earlier, or worse, what if he’s forgotten me altogether and I sound like a dumbass?

  I walk home, the postcard mocking me in my pocket.

  I reach the entrance to the villas at the same time as the postman. Seated on his bike, he slides mail into each of the slots. I take the postcard from my pocket and, before I can stop myself, hand it to him. He pops it into his tray as if this is a usual exchange, then shoots off, his bike stop-starting away from me, the postcard going with it. Shit.

  Perhaps courage is simply this: spur-of-the-moment acts when your head screams don’t, but your body does it anyway.

  Courage, or stupidity. It’s hard to tell.

  The volunteer at the cancer centre smiles like she remembers me, but she couldn’t—I never came down here. It was Mum who collected a few wigs for me to borrow. They were all ugly but I chose the blonde one because it resembled me the least. I wasn’t supposed to keep it this long.

  The wig’s kind of grotty so the woman puts it limply in a bag.

  ‘I hope Rhonda behaved herself.’

  ‘Rhonda?’

  ‘She’s a cutie, but trouble.’

  ‘They have names?’

  On faceless, styrofoam heads are wigs of all lengths, styles and colours. I see that each has a label: Pam, Marguerite, Vikki, Patricia.

  The woman touches my hair like it’s public property. ‘Beautiful. You look like an actress.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  Before cancer, my friends and I would whinge about split ends, and the cost of products and haircuts every eight weeks. The damage from hair straighteners. Hair was something we took for granted.

  Now, five months after chemo, my hair’s grown back healthy. It seems a lighter colour than before.

  ‘Brazil Nut Brown,’ the hairdresser said yesterday, running her fingers through it. ‘Nice. Just a trim?’

  I nodded. I’d forgotten what to say.

  ‘A few centimetres off? Or are you wanting to grow it out?’

  ‘I think I’m growing it out.’

  ‘Do you want some layering at the back? For body?’

  I stammered. I may have snorted. ‘I don’t care.’ I hadn’t expected to be given choices.

  ‘And a bit of layering around the face for shape?’

  The hairdresser had no idea why I was laughing. Then crying. But she snipped my hair expertly as I rubbed at sudden tears. I wanted to watch it all. Brazil nut brown falling to the floor.

  And today, I look like an actress, apparently. There are layers near my cheekbones, with a bit of a curl at my neck. My hair is back, despite everything that’s happened. My eyebrows and eyelashes are like normal. My period continues to return, again and again, and I’m weirdly pleased when it does. Even chocolate now tastes the way it should.

  An Indian girl, maybe ten years old, wheels through the door with a pink scarf knotted around her head. She’s followed by her mother. On the girl’s lap is a copy of James and the Giant Peach.

  She’s had cancer for a while; she knows the woman by name. Despite the shadows beneath her eyes, the girl’s skin is luminous.

  ‘Hello Shani, how are you today?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So then … who do you want to be this week?’

  The girl unknots her scarf and I turn away, letting them carry out the dress-up game.

  I swing past the pamphlets for wheelchair basketball, counsellors, make-overs, art therapy sessions, Make-A-Wish awards, amputee groups and bereavement services. I swing out to the bus stop where two old men and a woman sit waiting.

  So then … who do I want to be this week?

  A woman rides past on a Vespa. She has a shiny blue helmet and a spotted scarf blowing behind her. She uses her hands to steer and brake—her feet, I notice, don’t have to do a thing.

  I want to be her, I think. I want to be moving again.

  Four days later and still no reply. Maybe I got his address wrong on the postcard. Maybe he’s too busy with exams. Maybe the postie didn’t send it, after all.

  I check my mobile, but there’s nothing new. It’s only on Facebook that I find an unread message.

  But it’s not from Zac.

  Miiiia. Had a few mixers tonight but they weren’t the same without you:-(How’s Sydney? Are you finishing the beauty course? I quit school, did you know? I’m working at a bank now, not far from your mum’s place. The uniform sucks but at least I get paid;-) Bloody miss you. Shay xx

  And it hits me that I miss her too.

  Two days on and the mailbox remains empty. It upsets me, so I keep on walking. Without crutches, I make my way around the block. I’m back too soon so I do it again, further past the post office and the row of shops.

  I stop outside the bank and peer in. Shay’s standing behind a teller’s desk. She looks good in the uniform, with her hair pulled back like that. She seems different to the crazy best friend I had thr
ough high school.

  She doesn’t recognise me, even when she says, ‘Next please’ and I’m right in front of her. The smile stays frozen on her face for three complete seconds. ‘Fuck. Mia? For real?’

  ‘Hi Shay.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m here for a loan.’

  ‘For real? You’re not in Sydney? Hang on, I’m nearly on lunch. Come with?’

  I can almost keep up with her on the dash to the cafe, where we grab a table and a guy takes our order. It’s harder to follow the monologue about her job, but I try to pull the right faces when I’m supposed to.

  ‘Your hair’s great. Is that your natural colour?’

  I nod. ‘Brazil nut brown.’

  ‘Very specific. Thank god you got over that blonde phase. It was too much, you know? Intense. Then you went away … Hey, I’m still with Brandon.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I love him. Don’t worry, Mia, I know you’re not his … biggest fan.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Did I?

  ‘I could tell.’

  I can’t remember not liking Brandon, or at least, showing I didn’t like him. He was harmless enough, when he wasn’t butting in every five minutes.

  ‘He used to try so hard to impress you.’

  ‘Me?’ I snort. ‘Why?’

  Shay’s rubbing a sachet of sugar between her thumb and fingers. ‘Because you were my best friend, and you were hard to impress. You were Mia Phillips.’ She says my name as if it’s special. ‘Everyone wanted to impress you. You know that.’

  I shake my head. I don’t. I didn’t. If Shay only knew the shit I’ve been dragged through since then. These days, I’m more impressed by simple things: waking up without pain, cute finds at op shops, and discovering that I still have a friend.

  ‘I’m just Mia. I’m just … normal.’ At school I hated the word. Now, it feels like a kind of a prize. Not a first prize, admittedly, but it’s something.

  ‘Normal? Normal my arse, Mia. Why did you go to Sydney, anyway? There’s got to be a guy involved.’

  I drink my vanilla milkshake. What lies beneath my jeans and knee-high boots can remain a secret for now. So can Zac. God, I miss him. But I can’t message him yet—it’s his turn.

  ‘So, about this loan.’

  ‘I’ll chat to my people. What do you want it for?’

  I grin. ‘A canary-yellow vespa.’

  ‘Ha, told you! Normal. My. Arse.’

  32

  Mia

  There are seven hundred shades of matte paint in the hardware store. Eighty-two of them are blue. It’s Blue Opulence I keep coming back to. It’s an early-morning blue. A blue that roosters crow to. A view through Zac’s window blue.

  On my eighteenth birthday, I paint my room Blue Opulence. Mum offers to help and I show her how to cover the cornices and window frames with tape, the way Bec had. A new coat of paint for a new soul, Bec said when she painted the baby’s room olive green.

  ‘I want to paint the ceiling too.’

  Mum does it for me. She stands on my bed, which I’ve covered with newspaper. She’s shorter than me, but steadier. Blue drops stain her hair and leave spots on her face. When she turns to me—to check she’s doing all right—I tell her she looks like a character from Avatar.

  ‘From what?’

  ‘We should get it on DVD tonight.’

  ‘It’s your birthday,’ she says, as if I’ve forgotten.

  I had. ‘Then get two boxes of Maltesers.’

  A homemade cake is on the kitchen table. Mum’s spelled out Happy Birthday Mia with Smarties, the way she does every year.

  When I turned eight, the cake mortified me. I saw the way my schoolfriends—accustomed to princess cakes and butterflies—exchanged critical glances. ‘What does it say?’ asked one. The final two letters of my name were smaller than the rest, squeezed in as if my mother hadn’t thought far enough ahead. On a plastic tablecloth were bowls of cheeses and salted nuts, but the girls wanted fairy bread and lollies and pink Fanta. That day I realised how small the villa was. I noticed for the first time the marks on the carpet, the unhidden ashtrays and the rust in the bathroom sink. I was embarrassed by the slimy soap in the hand basin, not like the bottles of handwash other girls’ mothers had, with fluffy hand towels. My mother was too young. She should have been going out with friends, drinking cocktails and flirting with men in bars, not surrounded by boisterous eight-year-olds demanding pass-the-parcel. Mum looked lost. That’s when I knew I’d outgrown her.

  This time last year, the cake was left untouched as I celebrated my seventeenth in Freo with a dozen friends and a mix of ID cards, real and fake. We got hammered and I danced on a table until getting kicked out. I wore a black dress with a gold belt. I liked the looks I got from men outside cafes. I was good with heels. I liked the shouts from passing cars and the envy of mid-thirties women in jeans and cardigans leaving cinemas. I liked the free vodkas I got from the barman at the next club Because it’s my birthday! and the way Rhys paid the cab driver to drop us off at the park where we ran, laughing, and made out near the kids’ swing set. My ankle was sore then—I’d thought it was from dancing in my new heels. I ignored it for another four months. It was just an annoying ankle in a near-perfect world.

  Shay phones, but she can’t coax me out. I don’t want to risk bumping into old friends after six months of avoiding them. I can’t be bothered with make-up, or deciding what to wear.

  All I want is to veg out in front of Avatar, but even that’s not easy. Mum gets restless during the film, and it’s not because she’s eaten half the cake and most of the Maltesers. I’d forgotten the main character has legs that don’t work. On Earth he’s a paraplegic, but on Pandora he can run in huge, loping strides. He falls in love with a sexy blue alien and never wants to leave.

  Mum’s anxious because I finished the antidepressants two weeks ago and haven’t gone for a repeat. Her eyes flicker my way, worried the film will be a trigger that sends me fleeing, admittedly in a hobbling, swaying kind of way. But it isn’t.

  Three months of being still have taught me I’m not in a Hollywood film. This Earth is the only one I have and I’m stuck on it, with my imperfect mother and a fibreglass leg. I know I’ll always feel off-kilter, that I’ll continually have to right myself. I know this now. Running away wouldn’t change it. The east coast of Australia doesn’t tilt to a different angle.

  Later, I log in to Facebook. I speed-read my profile page, surprised by the number of birthday messages. But none are from Zac.

  I can make excuses for the lack of a card, but there’s no way of explaining this. He’d know it’s my birthday—on Facebook, everyone knows. The only reason he’d miss it is the obvious one: he’s forgotten me.

  Maybe it only take three months for that—generous arms, laughter under sheets, his bashful affection—to fade to this. Perhaps time eats away all relationships.

  Perhaps in a few more months we’ll be strangers.

  I switch off my light. Zac wants to get on with his life. He wants me to leave him alone.

  But that damn star keeps glowing, regardless.

  33

  Mia

  I find a blaze of red roses on the doorstep, but the card has Mum’s name on it. She puts a hand to her cheek when she reads it.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Just a guy …’

  ‘From the internet?’

  She shrugs, turning away.

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s okay. Nothing special.’

  Before I got sick, Mum would go on dates with whoever asked. She kept men secret from me, or thought she did. To them she was an enigmatic potential girlfriend, but in private she was an anxious single mother who couldn’t control her daughter. It’s from her I learned how to pretend, and how to switch faces for different audiences.

  Sharing a small house was never easy. If I came home happy, she’d bring me down, out of jealousy, or spite. And vice-versa. Ther
e was a constant seesawing of emotion, one of us always on edge. I knew she resented me for fucking up her life, and I hated her for being a fuck-up. In public she’d embarrass me, so I learned to keep my distance. At home she was always in my face. I could never do anything right.

  In the kitchen, Mum inhales the scent of roses. How come it’s so easy for a man to make my mother smile? Why has it always been impossible for me?

  A man exists who sees something good in my mother: a thirty-four-year-old woman who’s just doing her best. A man likes her enough to buy a dozen red roses, handwrite her a note, and personally deliver them to our doorstep. That takes courage.

  I fill a jug with water and arrange the roses. I want her to be happy, even though I’m lonely. I want my mum to be loved, even though I’m not.

  Then she hugs me and I think, perhaps, I am.

  When I go to check the mail four days later, a semitrailer is blocking my path.

  A man sets a ramp in place, jogs up into the truck, then wheels down a trolley that’s holding a tree. Tied to the tree is a shovel. What the hell?

  ‘Where do you want it?’

  ‘Not there. Who’s it for?’

  He checks his clipboard. ‘Mia Phillips. That you?’

  I nod. The tree’s taller than me, with thick, swishy branches and silver-green leaves.

  He shows me my name on his delivery schedule as proof.

  ‘What do I do with it?’

  ‘Beats me, I’m just the messenger.’

  When I sign the form I notice the truck’s loaded with cardboard boxes stamped with The Good Olive!

  ‘Are they full of oil?’

  ‘Just the messenger.’ He offers to wheel it inside the villa and I let him. Then he does a noisy fifty-one-point turn to get out of our cul-de-sac.

  ‘Mia?’ Mum has to contort herself through the front door. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It looks like a Leccino. Or it could be a Manzanillo. Hard to tell at this stage.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An olive tree. We have to plant it.’