Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful Page 10

  Dad’s knocking wakes me. “It’s seven o’clock, time to get up,” he calls through the door. He does the same outside Ziggy’s room.

  I’m so tired I can barely open my eyes. Dan didn’t call until almost eleven and it was after one when we finally hung up. I told him about my friends’ reactions to the news about Mum (leaving out the bits about crying in my undies in the change room and Siouxsie’s snarky comments), and about Jay being so nice to me and Mum seeming a little better and Dad freaking out about Gran coming. What I really wanted to say was that I wished he’d been there, but even though we were on the phone for two hours there never seemed to be the right moment for it. Our call ended abruptly when Dr Phil, having got up to go to the loo, heard Dan talking and barged into his room to blast him.

  I force myself out of bed and into the shower. When I get to the kitchen Dad greets me by pouring a lumpy ladleful of batter into the frying pan on the stove.

  “A small token of my appreciation for you and Ziggy getting the house ready for your gran,” he says, mistaking my expression of horror for curiosity.

  “Have you thought of a way to break the news to Mum?” I ask as I pour the pulpy dregs from the orange juice carton into a glass.

  “I’ve considered the options and I think the bandaid approach is best: get it done as quickly and cleanly as possible and be prepared for screaming.” Even as Dad says it, he seems scared.

  Ziggy finally gets up after Dad’s called him another three times. He comes to the kitchen wearing only his boxer shorts and sits down at the table as if this is perfectly normal.

  “You can’t eat breakfast in your underwear,” I tell him.

  Ziggy examines his bare chest and flexes his arms to admire his biceps. “Why not?”

  “It’s unhygienic, for starters. And off-putting for the rest of us. You know Mum’d have a fit if she was here.”

  “Well, she’s–”

  “Enough,” says Dad, passing Ziggy a plate and motioning to the stack of pancakes on the table. “We have a lot to do and not much time.”

  Ziggy gives me a shit-eating grin. It disappears when he tips the syrup bottle and only a single drop comes out.

  “I can’t eat looking at that,” I say, nodding towards Ziggy as I push my plate away.

  “Fine,” says Dad. “Let’s just get on with this, please. Thelma will be here in less than four hours.”

  “Biggie’s mum is picking me up at ten,” announces Ziggy, switching his plate for mine and cutting off a chunk of syrup-soaked pancake.

  “Not if you haven’t finished your half of the cleaning,” I tell him. “I’m not doing this on my own.”

  Dad pulls the chore roster off the fridge. “That’s right, everyone has to do their share, and a bit more since Mum and I won’t be here. I think you should give bedrooms and studies a miss and just concentrate on the living areas. Agreed?”

  “Yes!” says Ziggy.

  “But I still have to get my room ready for Gran,” I point out. “And make up the sofa bed in Mum’s study. Ziggy should have to take on something extra, too.”

  “It’s not my fault you have to switch rooms,” says Ziggy, stuffing another big chunk into his mouth.

  “Yes, it is. If your room wasn’t a complete biohazard, Gran could stay there and you could sleep downstairs.” I study the roster to check which of this week’s allotted tasks I hate the most. “Ziggy should have to do the bathroom, as well.”

  “Be a sport, Zig,” says Dad. “We all have to pitch in while Thelma’s here. Do it for Mum, eh?”

  Ziggy looks as if Dad’s guilt trip has done the trick, until he spots my previous roster amendment that put him on kitty litter duty. “No deal. Mrs Biggie’s taking us to the indoor climbing range and I’m not missing it just because Freia’s got her panties in a wad.”

  I give Dad my best are-you-going-to-let-him-get-away-with-that look, but he’s too busy draining his coffee mug. “I have to get to the hospital,” he says. “Fray, I’m leaving this in your capable hands. Zig, please do your share and stop talking about your sister’s underwear.” He kisses each of us on the head and pulls his car keys from his pocket.

  “You could at least put your dishes in the dishwasher,” I call after him.

  “I guess whoever’s down for cleaning the kitchen will have to do that,” says Ziggy, holding up the roster. “Oh, look, it’s you.”

  “If you want to go climbing, you’d better get every chore on that list done, and done properly,” I say, stacking Dad’s plate on top of mine and standing to take them to the dishwasher.

  Ziggy’s face goes from smug to furious in an instant. He stands up and leans over me, which – since he’s now taller than Dad – forces me to crane my neck to avoid being up close and personal with his bare chest.

  “You are not my mother and you do not tell me what to do,” he says in a low snarl, like a dog protecting a bone.

  I remember what Vicky told us about how to get away from a dangerous animal without being attacked, and keep my eyes locked on Ziggy’s until he takes a step back and leaves the room. My heart is pounding.

  After I’ve cleaned the kitchen and dusted and vacuumed the living room, I set about removing anything even vaguely incriminating from my room. It’s not that I think Grandma Thelma would go through my things but … well, actually, yes, I do. During one of our you-don’t-respect-my-privacy fights last year, Mum told me that when she was my age Gran used to go into her bedroom while she was at school and read her diary and look through her drawers. She meant that I should be grateful that she only eavesdropped on my phone calls and checked my homework, but all it did was make me suspicious of Gran.

  I grab a cardboard box from the recycling pile. Into it goes the photo of me and Dan, and his T-shirt, and the note he left for me at Switch that time he had to leave before I got there. On impulse, I throw in my battered old copy of Charlotte’s Web. After a tense stand-off with Boris, who’s seriously unimpressed about having the sheets changed for the third time in as many days, I make the bed and switch my pillow for one of the old, lumpy ones Mum keeps in the linen cupboard. It’s a petty revenge for being chucked out of my room, but quite satisfying all the same.

  A car honks outside, followed by the sound of the front door slamming as Ziggy makes his escape. We’ve carefully avoided each other since breakfast, but I know he’s done some cleaning because I heard the vacuum in the upstairs hallway. I’m banking on having to do it all again. The last thing I want is for Gran to tell Mum off about the house being a sty.

  To my surprise, the bathroom gleams – he’s even put a new bar of soap in the shower. The only evidence that this is Ziggy’s handiwork is Boris’s untouched litter tray in the corner of the room, on top of which sits the chore roster. If Dan was here, he’d chalk this battle up as a win for Ziggy.

  I’m just about to take my box of stuff and sheets and pillow downstairs when the screeching starts outside. At first it sounds like a woman shouting, but then it turns into a sort of guttural squawking. Boris wakes in fright and jumps off the bed, taking cover in the wardrobe. Looking out the window, I’m not surprised to see Grandma Thelma in the driveway, arguing with the taxi driver. I am, however, surprised to see that she’s holding a large cage.

  17

  The taxi driver finally leaves after I promise that Gran’s parakeet has neither rabies nor avian flu and pay him an extra ten dollars to cover the cost of cleaning the back seat.

  “You shouldn’t have given him anything,” Gran says, picking up the smallest of her three bags in her free hand and heading for the house. “Rocky would never have done that if he hadn’t been driving too fast in the first place. The speed gets him overexcited.”

  By the time I get back from dragging her luggage upstairs, Gran’s put the kettle on and is rifling through the pantry. “Where do you keep your biscuit tin, Bloss?”

  “We don’t have one,” I say, eyeing Rocky’s cage in the middle of the dining table and making a mental note to c
heck my avian flu facts with Vicky.

  Gran draws her head out of the cupboard and stares at me as if I’ve just told her we don’t have electricity. “But Gene always has a bickie or two for morning tea.”

  Only when you’re visiting, I want to tell her, but that’d be giving away Mum’s secrets. “We’ve run out.”

  “It looks like you’ve run out of a lot of things,” she says, adding Tim Tams to the long shopping list on the fridge. “Sorry, Rocko, no elevenses today.” Rocky tucks his head into his chest in disappointment.

  It’s been almost a year since Grandma Thelma’s last visit, but she hasn’t changed much. Her hair is still styled the same way and, aside from some faint lines around her eyes and mouth, she doesn’t have many wrinkles, especially for someone who’s almost eighty. She’s still pretty nimble on her feet, too, if the way she moves briskly round the kitchen is any indication.

  From the neck up, Gran looks like your regular, everyday nanna. She has her hair set in curls regularly (presumably to hide that there’s not that much of it left) and dyed a colour that’s somewhere between silver and blond, and appears lavender in a certain light. I’ve never seen her without lipstick, not even first thing in the morning. (Ziggy has a theory that it’s so she can mark her territory by leaving a trail of brightly coloured smears on everything she comes in contact with: tea cups, her toothbrush, our cheeks, et cetera.) From the neck down, it’s a lucky dip. Gran’s top is nearly always something she’s knitted herself. In colder weather she favours jumpers in lurid colours, often featuring some sort of bird or animal or flower, or a combination of all three. When it’s warm she pulls out a range of sleeveless tops worked in complicated lace patterns that reveal hints of her skin underneath, as if anyone wants to see it. When she lived down here she always paired these handmade monstrosities with something restrained, like black trousers or a knee-length skirt but, since she’s moved up north, you can’t rely on that any more. She and the other ladies from the Rest Awhile Assisted Living Villas love going on those shopping tours of factory outlets selling off last season’s knock-offs of stuff that was trendy two years ago. Judging by today’s outfit, this year’s left overs are those leggings that are meant to look like jeans. They set off her watermelon-pink cardigan and sensible walking shoes nicely. Not. Still, it does explain where Mum gets her dress sense.

  “We didn’t realise you were bringing Rocky with you,” I say, taking a sip from the mug she hands me.

  “Well, I couldn’t leave him at home, could I? I mean, Maisy doesn’t mind having him when I’m only gone for a few days, but I couldn’t ask her to do it for any longer than that. Anyway, Rocky loves to go visiting, don’t you, Rocko?”

  Rocky squawks in agreement. His beak is razor sharp, as are his claws.

  “Does he stay in his cage all the time?” I ask.

  “Oh no, at home he has the run of the place but the airlines are very fussy. His travel perch is in my suitcase, if you’d like to get it. I’m sure he’d love to stretch his wings.”

  I return Rocky’s rueful stare. “Perhaps we’d better let him get used to being somewhere new first.”

  I check the bus timetable while Gran “freshens up” (which, judging by the loo flushing and the bright slash of colour on her lips, is nanna code for “goes to the loo and puts on another layer of lippie”). Remembering my promise to Dad to get Gran to the hospital as close to the end of morning visiting hours as possible, I play for time.

  “There’s a bus in five minutes,” I call up the stairs, “but we’d have to run to make it. Best to wait for the next one, eh?”

  “I can run,” says Gran, jogging down the stairs to demonstrate her fitness. “Let’s go.”

  She walks two metres ahead of me the whole way down the street, which is even more embarrassing since she’s carrying her handbag and a large tote bag and all I have in my hand is my wallet. She’s not even puffing when she asks the driver for her pensioner ticket.

  The bus is packed, since it’s school holidays and the route goes to the city via Parkville Metro and the hospital. Grandma Thelma stands next to the priority seating sign at the front of the bus and tuts audibly until a young couple stands. She sits and motions for me to take the other seat. The couple give me the death stare.

  “That was quite a sprint you made up the street,” says the elderly man sitting across from Gran. “I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you,” says Gran, patting her hair into place.

  The two of them chat for the rest of the journey. On the one hand, I’m relieved not to have to make conversation with Gran myself. On the other, I’m horrified that she and the old man are flirting. Right there on the bus! I stare out the window, hoping the other passengers won’t guess we’re related.

  When we get to the oncology ward I try to outpace Gran so that I can at least give Mum and Dad a couple of seconds warning that she’s arrived. Mum looks a bit perkier than she did yesterday, but she’s still in bed. I avoid looking at the drainage tube; it’s not a good idea this close to lunchtime.

  I reckon Mum must still be a bit woozy because she seems genuinely pleased to see Gran. They hug for a long time, Gran sitting on the edge of the bed and Mum clinging to her like a child who’s just woken up from a bad dream. Dad suggests that he and I go and make tea while the two of them catch up. They dismiss us with a wave, already deep in conversation.

  “Gran brought her bird with her,” I tell Dad as soon as we’re out of Mum’s room. “And you owe me ten dollars for paying off her cab driver so he doesn’t sue us.”

  “The bird? Why would she do that?” Dad’s so horrified that he gets out his wallet without asking for details.

  “She said she couldn’t leave Rocky home alone for too long.”

  Dad’s shoulders slump. “Just how long is she planning to stay?”

  We drink our tea (which isn’t strong enough for Gran’s liking) and eat the shortbread biscuits I found at the back of the fridge in the visitors’ lounge (rancid, says Gran, but she still eats two of them). Gran tells story after story about terrible things that have happened to friends of friends of hers in hospitals. Mum keeps trying to reassure her that the Women’s Hospital has a top reputation for patient care, but this doesn’t stop Gran going on about legionnaire’s disease and golden staph and super viruses. Dad seems relieved when the nurse comes in to tell us that morning visiting hours are over.

  “I’m not a visitor,” Gran huffs. “I’m Gene’s mother, and I’ve travelled a very long way to be here.”

  The nurse looks like she’s heard it all before. “I’m afraid I can’t make any exceptions. You can come back at three.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Thelma,” says Dad. “Why don’t we go home and have some lunch, and then you can unpack and settle in and we’ll come back this evening with Ziggy?”

  Gran fixes him with her old-lady death stare. “I’ve got a better idea, Terry. Since there’s nothing to eat at your house, anyway, why don’t Freia and I go and have some lunch and you can get the groceries and meet us back here with Ziggy later?”

  I try to will Dad mentally to tell Gran that he needs my help with the shopping or something – anything to spare me from spending two hours alone with the woman – but he’s so relieved to be off the hook himself that he doesn’t get the message.

  “It’s the special sauce that makes it so tasty,” says Gran, sniffing her Big Mac as if it’s a fine wine.

  I’m still unpacking my boxed lunch. It’s been so long since Mum banned us from eating fast food that I had no idea what to order. When the girl at the counter asked me what I wanted for the third time I gave up trying to read the menu above her head and asked for what I used to get if Mum or Dad brought us here for a special treat. From the raised eyebrow she gave me, I guess not many teenagers order the Happy Meal.

  “Mum’ll freak if she finds out we ate here,” I say, putting the plastic figurine to one side and taking my burger from its wrapper. “She reckons they shouldn’t be al
lowed to sell fast food in a building full of people who already have health problems. She calls this place the cardiologist’s waiting room.”

  “Well, what your mother doesn’t know can’t hurt her,” says Gran. She pauses her attack on her burger to dunk some fries in her thickshake. “And my cardiologist says I have the arteries of a sixty year old.”

  The burger and fries do taste pretty good, even though they leave the inside of my mouth with a greasy coating that no amount of water will shift.

  “I said you should have got a Coke,” tuts Gran as I swish more water round my mouth. She checks her watch. “Right, we’ve got about an hour and a half. Let’s go into town.”

  We walk until we get to the pedestrian mall in the middle of the city. “Here’s a good spot to sit and people watch.”

  I’m about to tell her that no one in their right mind would want to spend time just sitting on one of the benches in the mall, watching office workers and stressed-out mums, but when I look around the other benches are full of old ladies who appear to be doing just that. Gran sits down next to one of them and pats the bench for me to join her. Then she reaches into her tote bag and pulls out a mass of bright pink and yellow. Oh, great, she’s brought her knitting.

  Five most embarrassing things adults do to you in public

  1. Spit on a tissue and wipe your face.

  2. Call you Sausage.

  3. Wear clogs (the genuine seventies kind, preferably in baby-poo brown).

  4. Knit.

  5. Talk loudly about your love life.

  “Your mum tells me you’ve met a nice fella,” says Gran, her needles click-clacking briskly. “When are you going to introduce me?”

  When Boris has kittens. “I’m not sure. Dan’s pretty busy.”