Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful Page 14

  I wake to the sound of laughter, something I haven’t heard for a long time, especially not at eight in the morning. Usually, the only noise in the house at this hour is Rocky squawking for his breakfast.

  When I get to the kitchen I understand why Rocky’s not complaining. He and Boris are sitting on either side of the open breadbin, with the now-empty packet of Boris’s cat treats lying between them. Rocky’s face is tucked under his wing in shame. Boris is washing his bulging belly vigorously in an attempt to hide his mortification at being laughed at by Mum and Dad.

  “Caught in cahoots with the enemy, Borrie,” chuckles Dad. “I thought you had more pride.”

  “Not where his stomach’s concerned,” says Mum. She turns to Dad and smiles. “It’s good that some things haven’t changed around here.”

  “Lots of things are still the same, Genie,” says Dad as he leans down to nuzzle her neck, which makes her giggle more.

  Alerted by my cough from the doorway, Dad looks up. “Sorry, Sausage, were we being too loud?”

  Mum’s embarrassed smile and flushed cheeks stop me from saying yes. “It’s okay. I was awake.”

  “Well, the good news is, you’re just in time for pancakes.”

  Dad moves towards the pantry but Mum puts out her hand to stop him. “You’ve done so much around here lately, Terence. Why don’t you take the morning off and I’ll make French toast?”

  She winks at me over Dad’s shoulder and I mouth “thank you”.

  Gran comes in just as Mum sets the first plateful of golden brown toast in front of Dad. She must’ve made it to bed at some stage because she’s wearing her dressing gown. She shuffles to take her seat at the table, not even noticing that Rocky’s on the kitchen counter.

  “Morning, Thelma,” says Dad, brightly. “Would you like some French toast?”

  Gran pushes away the plate Dad offers and swallows hard. “Just a cup of tea, thank you. I think one of those prawns last night was off.”

  “Either that or the sherry’s catching up with you,” says Dad, flashing me a grin.

  “Actually, I’m feeling a little off-colour, too, now that you mention it,” says Mum.

  Gran smiles smugly and pours herself a cup of tea.

  I don’t race to answer the phone when it rings, since Ziggy’s not home yet and Gran’s in no state to beat me to it.

  “I was beginning to think you must be sleeping off a big night,” says Dan when I pick up just as the answering machine kicks in.

  “Hardly. How was your party?”

  “Good. Well, better than I’d expected, anyway. A couple of Kristy’s mates came so it wasn’t total dorkarama. One of them managed to get his hands on some fireworks and we had our own little show at midnight … I missed you, though.”

  If my mind wasn’t so busy picturing Dan’s and Kristy’s faces lit up by fireworks, I’d say it back to him. Instead, I ask what his plans are for the day.

  “Stepdag’s making me go to the golf course with him. Mum reckons he wants to get to know me better, but I think he just wants to keep me where he can see me. What about you?”

  I haven’t got around to thinking further than a shower yet but I say, “I think I’ll go for a ride.”

  Once I’ve said it, a ride seems as good a way to pass the day as any. I turn left at the park, instead of the usual right-hand turn that takes me towards Switch and the Metro. I know being by the river will make me miss Dan even more, but sometimes you need to wallow in self-pity.

  23

  Since it’s New Year’s Day there’s not much traffic on the road to Brightside, which is just as well because my mind’s far too buzzy to deal with aggro truck drivers. I turn into the residential street past the abandoned factory and get off to wheel my bike down the hill, which is littered with the glassy remains of last night’s celebrations. It’s a steamy day and there are no clouds to shade me as I ride along the narrow path. The river looks less brown with the sun glinting off it; you could almost be tempted to go for a swim on a day like today, if it wasn’t for the smell. I block my nose and ride on.

  The last time I was here I was too busy trying to work out where Dan was taking me to pay much attention to my surroundings on the ride in, and too busy trying not to cry on the way back. Now I notice that the bushes on the path are covered in almost-ripe blackberries, and the spiky thistles have burst into purple pompoms. I spot five kinds of bird in the bushes, and can hear at least three more cooing and cawing in the dense foliage on the river side of the path. In the distance I see a red and gold pagoda-style roof I hadn’t noticed before. Next to it is something large and round and blindingly white, so big and so white that I don’t know how I missed it before.

  When I reach Dan’s willow I keep peddling, cranking my bike up a couple of gears as the hill gets steeper. Up close the temple isn’t as grand as it appeared from a distance. Some of the paint is peeling and a couple of tiles have fallen off the roof, but there’s something about its imperfections that makes it more approachable. As I get closer, I can finally see the white statue in its entirety. It’s a chubby, smiling Buddha, about four metres high and almost as wide. Its rounded legs are crossed, as if inviting me to sit in its lap.

  I don’t recall much of what we learned about Buddhism when we studied comparative religions in Year Eight, but I do remember a discussion about karma and karmic destiny. It had turned into quite a heated debate, with Siouxsie (who was still Susannah then, but already not afraid to challenge our teachers) arguing that karma couldn’t be real or bad things wouldn’t happen to good people. At the time I disagreed, not that I’d had the guts to say so in class, but now I can’t help wondering if Siouxsie was right. I mean, what could Mum have done to deserve what she’s been through? She’s never deliberately harmed anyone; she tries only to eat meat that’s been grown on cruelty-free organic farms, whose websites show photos of happy pigs and calves that aren’t separated from their mothers; and she’s spent as long as I can remember avoiding any kind of carcinogen discovered by scientists, from hair dyes to potatoes with green spots. If you really got what you deserved in life, Mum should have won lotto by now. Or at least be in perfect health.

  When Dan calls I don’t mention that I went to Brightside. I tell myself that I want to surprise him by taking him to see the statue when he gets back, but really it’s because I’m not sure how he’d feel about me going to his special place without him.

  “How was golf?” I say before he can ask about my day.

  Dan groans. “As boring as it looks on TV. We spent three hours standing in the baking sun while Stepdag lectured me about my grip and my swing and my need to become one with the golf ball. I lost it somewhere around the thirteenth hole.”

  “Lost it as in …?”

  “As in I told him where he could stick his nine iron and legged it. He called Mum to tell her what an ungrateful little shit I am before I even got home. Now neither of them are talking to me. Like I care.”

  Before I can think of anything comforting to say, I hear a noise at Dan’s end, followed by shouting.

  “Sorry, Fray,” says Dan when the yelling stops. “It seems that not only am I to stay locked in my room but I have to hand over my phone, too. I’ll call you tomorrow, if I can.”

  “Just don’t get yourself in any deeper trouble,” I say before we hang up.

  My body aches with exhaustion from the uphill ride to the temple, but I can’t sleep. The sofa bed gets less comfortable every day. Boris, perched on top of two pillows, doesn’t notice, but the sharp edge of a wayward spring digs into my back. I turn onto my side, gripping the edge of the cold steel frame to stop myself from rolling back onto it.

  I’m just drifting into a half-dream about riding along the river and straight past where Dan is waiting for me, when I hear shuffling in the kitchen. It sounds like someone’s fumbling in the dark, trying not to make any noise. Someone who doesn’t know the layout of our house.

  I grab the biggest, heaviest-looking book on
Mum’s shelf (the Oxford English Dictionary, Volume XII: Ha-In) and tiptoe up the hall to investigate. When I get to the doorway I flick on the light and raise the book in, what I hope, is a threatening stance. Mum gasps and drops the carton of milk she’s holding.

  I mop up while Mum heats what’s left of the milk in the small enamel pot she’s used to heat milk on sleepless nights for as long as I can remember.

  “I used to be able to navigate this kitchen in the dark with my eyes closed,” she says, stirring in a spoonful of honey. “The pot wasn’t in its usual place.”

  “That’s because Gran rearranged the cupboards.”

  “I should’ve guessed.” She hands me a steaming mug. Even though it’s a warm night I wrap both hands around it, letting the comforting heat spread from my fingertips up my whole hand. “Thanks for looking after things here while I was in hospital, Fray. I think your dad would’ve had a breakdown if he’d had to deal with Mum on his own. Still, he’s handling all this very well, isn’t he?”

  I think of Dad’s unironed shirts and the mess by his bed and the way he disappeared into his study every second of the day that he wasn’t at hospital or obliged to join us for meals, and “mm-hmmm”.

  “How much longer do you need to have that?” I ask, nodding at the drainage tube that winds from the sleeve of Mum’s kimono, down to the pocket where the bag must be.

  “Only a day or two. Dr Bynes says she’s very happy with my recovery so far, and my physio and oncology nurse are too. I don’t have to go back to hospital until just before I start radiotherapy.”

  “That’s the next stage of your treatment?”

  Mum nods. “The next and hopefully only stage. Because they caught the cancer early and did the mastectomy and my lymph nodes are clear, after a few weeks of daily radio I should be done for now.”

  “You’re starting to sound like Dr Bynes with all your medical lingo.”

  “Sorry,” says Mum and repeats herself in words I can understand (well, eighty per cent of them).

  I ask her about the stuff that Vicky mentioned, and she tells me her cancer is hormone receptor-positive, which means she’ll have to take hormone-blocking medication for up to five years. “There’s no history of breast cancer on either side of our family, if that’s what’s worrying you,” she adds, using her Mum-telepathy skills.

  “No, I just … okay, maybe a little.”

  Mum takes my hand and rubs her thumb back and forth across my palm. “I’m sorry, Fray. As the only other woman in the family, I’m sure this has been harder on you than the boys. We could arrange for you to see one of the counsellors at the hospital, if you want. Jenny says they have a wonderful family support team.”

  As much as I know it would please Mum for me to spill my guts to a kiddie shrink, there’s only so far I’m prepared to take my resolution to make her happy. “It’s okay, really. I’m just glad you’re home.”

  “Is that all that’s worrying you?”

  I swirl what’s left of the milk in my mug, concentrating on the rippled skin that’s forming on top. “Do you believe in karma?”

  If Mum’s surprised by the sudden change in topic, she doesn’t show it. “I believe in doing the right thing according to my own moral code – is that what you mean?”

  “But does doing that mean you deserve a happy life?”

  “Ah, as your gran would put it: ‘reaping what you sow’. I guess so.”

  “But what about you getting sick? I mean, don’t you resent it, after you’ve been so good?”

  Mum shrugs. “‘Bad things happen to good people’. That’s another one of my mother’s favourites.”

  “I’m serious, Mum. After everything you’ve done to avoid cancer …”

  “I got it anyway; I know. I’ve thought about it a lot over the past few weeks and the only thing that makes sense to me is that maybe all this was a message from my subconscious, telling me I need to take some time to enjoy all the good things in my life instead of trying to control what’s going to happen next.”

  “But you’re a control freak – that’s where I get it from!”

  Mum finishes her milk without saying another word. I think I may have insulted her, which is probably in the top five things you shouldn’t do to your mother when she’s recovering from surgery, but her expression is neither angry nor sad. If anything, she looks serene.

  “Maybe you need to lighten up, too,” she says after what, for me, has been an uncomfortable silence. “I know you miss Dan, but moping around by yourself isn’t going to bring him home any sooner. Didn’t you and Siouxsie have big plans for these holidays?”

  Mum picks up both of our mugs and kisses the top of my head on her way to the dishwasher. She’s definitely getting more subtle with the self-help mumbo jumbo, I’ll give her that.

  24

  I don’t wait for the brownies to cool. I’m in too much of a hurry, and Sooz once said she liked them best when they were still warm and the choc chips were a bit melty.

  “I’ll be back by dinnertime,” I call as I grab my helmet and head for the garage. Even though Dad and Gran are both at the dining table – him reading the newspaper and her texting Archie – Rocky is the only one who acknowledges my departure. Mum’s still in bed.

  Siouxsie’s mum is wearing her usual assortment of chunky silver jewellery and beads and has a string of bells around one ankle, which makes it sound like a herd of very small cows is coming to open the door. She greets me with a big hug.

  “If you’re looking for Sooz, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. She’s at her dad’s,” she says when she’s done squeezing me.

  “Her dad’s? Is she working today?”

  Pam cocks her head and gives me the same expression Siouxsie gets when she thinks I’ve lost the plot. “No, she’s at Mike’s apartment. Didn’t Sooz tell you he moved out?”

  I shake my head, speechless.

  “Poor love, a visit from you is probably just what she needs.”

  She tinkles away from the door before I have time to protest that I may actually be the last person Siouxsie wants to see, returning a minute later with a city address on a scrap of paper. “Give her a hug from me and tell her I miss her.”

  According to the plaque outside Siouxsie’s dad’s building, until a couple of years ago it was the tallest residential block in the city. I chain my bike outside and walk slowly towards the revolving doors. It would be so easy to turn around now and pretend I was never here. I could go home and call Sooz to casually suggest we catch a movie at the Astor and see if she brings it up herself. Or better yet, email her and see whether she responds at all.

  “Are you coming in or just admiring the architecture?”

  Siouxsie’s standing behind me, holding two bulging bags stamped with the logo of the convenience store on the corner.

  “Um, coming in … if that’s okay?”

  She gives a single nod and steps into the revolving door. I follow a step too closely and we end up in the same glassed segment. From the way Sooz legs it out the door as soon as we get to the lobby, I get the feeling it’s too close for comfort. It’s the same in the lift, where we both stare straight ahead like we’re strangers. When we get to the thirty-third floor the doors open with a soft bing and I follow Siouxsie up a beige corridor to apartment 3309.

  “Excuse the mess,” says Siouxsie, dumping the shopping bags on the kitchen bench when we get inside. “When Mike decided he wanted to start his new life on New Year’s Eve, he didn’t think about taking any time off work to unpack.” She sees me looking from the kitchen to the large living room, which is furnished with a folding chair and two milk crates. “He didn’t think about buying any furniture, either.”

  I walk to one of the full-length windows that lead out to a small balcony. “The view’s amazing, though.”

  Siouxsie stops rifling through the shopping bags and comes to stand next to me. “It is,” she says, gazing over the river towards the botanic gardens. “You should’ve seen the firework
s on New Year’s Eve. This year I’m chucking Mike out and we’re partying here.”

  “You were here on New Year’s Eve? I thought you were – oh.”

  “I didn’t want Mike to be all alone. For all his talk about how happy he is to be his own man again, he’s pretty miserable most of the time. And thirty-three storeys is a long way to fall.”

  If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in myself, I would’ve realised that there was more to Siouxsie withdrawing from everything than just being pissed off that I hadn’t told her about Mum.

  She doesn’t look at me when I put my arm around her shoulder, but she doesn’t pull away. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about, really. The split’s been on the cards for months,” she says. “It took finding out about Pam’s lover to force him to do something about it, finally.”

  “Pam had an affair?”

  “Correction: is having one. Turns out her friend Max from book club is more than just a reading buddy.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. In my mind affairs are had by movie stars and politicians, not mums from Parkville. It sounds as unlikely as Dad announcing that someone wants to publish his book.

  Siouxsie fills me in on the whole story while we devour most of the brownies. “I’m not so fussed about the divorce,” she says, licking chocolate from her fingers. “It’s more that Mum didn’t have the decency to end things with Dad before starting another relationship. I mean, that’s just good manners, don’t you think? And they could’ve sorted out the furniture situation first, too – I don’t even have a bed here.”

  When Siouxsie calls her parents Mum and Dad instead of by their first names, I know she’s not coping nearly as well as she’s making out. We unpack the rest of the boxes in the kitchen and make a long list of all the things Mike needs (such as forks).

  “Do you want to stay at my place tonight?” I ask as I’m leaving. “The sofa bed’s not the greatest, but it can fit two if we kick Boris out.”