Fifteen Love (13 page)

WILL

In the pizza place, Vanessa and I watch the guy rolling out the dough. He spins it on his hand, then lays it out on the aluminium dish and smears it with tomato paste. He scoops up a handful of cheese and spreads it around. He arranges the seafood, the salami and capsicum, the ham and pineapple, the mushrooms and olives, then he puts the finished pizza onto the slow-moving conveyor belt.

‘Is that eat in or takeaway?' he asks.

I look at Vanessa.

‘Eat in,' she says.

We sit at a little table by the door, so that it almost could be takeaway. If we changed our minds about eating in, we could pick up our pizza and step out into the street. Takeaway means food you eat when you're hungry. Eating in means more than just the food. Eating in means it's a date. My first-ever date with a girl and I am hopelessly unprepared.

Vanessa, on the other hand, is in her element. She orders a
chinotto
and even knows how to pronounce it. She studies the menu and tosses around other tricky words like
prosciutto
and
bruschetta
as if she's part-Italian.

‘We should have ordered the
capricciosa
,' she says.

‘What's a
quattro stagioni
?' I say.

Vanessa looks worried, about either my bad pronunciation or my lack of pizza experience.

‘Actually, this is only the . . . ' I count on my fingers ‘. . . fifth pizza I've ever had.'

‘What?' Vanessa looks horrified.

‘My dad says I'm not allowed to eat pizza.'

‘Your dad is weird.'

‘Ken has a master's degree in sports nutrition. He majored in fat metabolism. Everything he eats is low-fat: low-fat yoghurt, low-fat muffins, low-fat muesli bars. He thinks pizza is evil.'

Vanessa smiles. ‘It
is
evil. That's why it tastes so good.

Time passes. Seconds turn into minutes and minutes turn back into seconds. Vanessa puts the menu away and sips her
chinotto
. Light years pass, and our pizza is lost forever inside the black-hole oven. Because it's a date, I feel I should say something. But because I've never been on a date before – and because the pizza is taking so long – I can't. I can't stop thinking that the conveyor belt must be broken and our pizza burnt beyond recognition. The pizza guy is reading his newspaper. He's forgotten all about us.

‘So,' says Vanessa finally. ‘What was it like, being famous?'

‘Pretty ordinary,' I say.

‘What was the best thing?'

I shrug my shoulders. ‘I got to go on a date with you?'

Vanessa laughs and looks me in the eye.

‘I'm going to be famous someday,' she says. ‘And I'll do what it takes to stay famous!'

Finally, our pizza emerges from the oven, so the pizza guy carves it and brings it over. Vanessa takes a big slice in both hands and positions it above her open mouth like a sword swallower. She lowers the pizza and takes a bite, then pulls away, leaving a sagging bridge of melted mozzarella.

She looks so hungry, it's almost scary.

MIA

The hospital where my father works is in the city. My taxi drops me off outside the main entrance, then I catch the lift up to the fifth floor: Ward C.

The nurse at reception smiles at me. ‘Can I help you?'

Has my dad ever
done it
with her, I wonder?

When I tell her who I am she says, ‘Dr Foley? I think he's seeing someone.'

‘I'm sure he is.'

I go and wait outside my dad's rooms until the door opens. A middle-aged woman steps out. She says ‘Thank you' as she closes the door behind her.

Has he just finished
doing it
with her as well?

Without knocking, I open the door and enter. My father is at his desk, searching for a file in his bottom drawer. He doesn't even look up.

‘Yes?'

‘You didn't come home last night.'

‘Mia!'

Dad stands up to welcome me. He tries to kiss me but I pull away, so he shuts the door and sits back in his chair. As slowly and deliberately as I can, I place the closed viola case on the desk in front of him.

‘How was orchestra practice?' he asks in his cheery doctor's voice.

‘Where were you?'

Dad blinks.

I take a deep breath.

‘Were you with . . .
her
? Were you with . . . your girlfriend?'

For a moment Dad looks flustered, but then he puts on his important doctor's face.

‘Can we talk about this later tonight? I have patients waiting.'

I look at my father, the important doctor, sitting there behind his important doctor's desk, wearing his important doctor's suit. I look at his important doctor's hands, so clean and calmly folded on the desktop. They are surgeon's hands – hands that save lives. But they are also unfaithful hands – hands that like groping young women. In some countries, adulterers have their hands cut off.

‘I don't want to talk about it,' I say, trying to hold back my tears. ‘Not now. Not tonight. I didn't come here to talk about it. I came here to tell you to leave me and Mum alone. You're not a part of our family anymore. I don't
ever
want you to come home again!'

‘You're upset,' says Dad, holding out his hands to me. ‘I understand.'

I shake my head. ‘You think if something is wrong you can fix it. You think you can cut a hole in someone and take out the bad bit. You think you can stitch them back up and everything will be okay, but you're wrong!'

My father stares in disbelief as I open the viola case and empty the shattered contents onto his desk.

‘There are some things,' I say, ‘that can never be fixed.'

WILL

It's after seven o'clock by the time I get home. Smelling of pizza, coffee, cigarettes and Vanessa, I slip in the front door like a criminal – full of elaborate alibis and expecting the worst. But Ken's reaction is not what I expected. Instead of being angry, he smiles sympathetically.

‘How's the elbow?' he says.

Besides his degree in nutrition, Ken has a certificate in sports massage from the Institute of Pain and Torture.

‘Tell me if it hurts,' he says, holding my shoulder and rotating my arm.

‘It hurts.'

‘I spoke to a physiotherapist today. He recommended massage, hydrotherapy and heat treatment, but if it's the ligaments we should see a radiologist.'

‘Can't we just leave it alone?'

‘If we don't get it fixed, we'll miss the whole summer.'

I pull my arm away from him. ‘
We?
What about
me
? It's my elbow, isn't it? I'm the one who holds the racquet. I'm the one who has to walk out there on the court. I say we leave it alone. I don't care how long it takes.'

‘You can't just give up,' says Ken. ‘Not after all the hard work you've done.'

He nods at the eight or nine tennis trophies on the bookshelf – serious little golden men like chocolate wrapped in tinfoil – as if they somehow matter.

‘There's more to life than playing tennis,' I say. ‘You're not just my coach, Ken. You're also my dad, remember?'

Dave and Lyn appear in the doorway, looking concerned.

‘Ken only wants you to be happy, Will,' says Lyn softly.

I look at the three of them standing there, blocking my way with their endless patience and understanding. Ever since Dave's accident, there has been nothing but patience and understanding. In our family, Dave's accident is something you never talk about. It is something we never mention, not because it is too painful, but because it is understood. Dave's accident united our family in a way that other families could never be united. After the accident, it felt like us versus the rest of the world. We had to stick together – we had no choice. In our family you don't complain. If there is a problem, you work it out. Anger is out of line. Crying is not an option. For four years I have been brave and strong, like a third adult, helping to care for my disabled brother. But now, suddenly, I feel like throwing a tantrum.

‘I'm not like Dave!' I shout. ‘I don't need you to plan my whole life! I don't need round-the-clock supervision!'

Lyn looks at Ken and Ken looks at Lyn. I look at Dave and Dave looks away. I feel ashamed of what I have said, but the damage is done. I don't know what to say to make it better.

Five

MIA

There are no tears or big goodbyes. I get home from school one day to find a note on the kitchen table:
Found a nice two-bedroom
place. Ring me – love, Dad.

When I try ringing my father on his mobile, a recorded voice tells me the phone is either switched off or out of range. That figures.

Mum is very calm about it. She calls our solicitor, who recommends someone else, because he is already representing my dad. Mum writes down the number, thanks him and hangs up.

‘Well,' she says bravely. ‘What do you want for dinner?'

‘I'll cook!' I say.

‘There's not much in the fridge.'

‘Then I'll shop, too!'

Going to the supermarket is fine when you know what you want. But as a place for getting ideas, it is hopeless. Aisles 1 to 4 have no food whatsoever. Aisle 5 is full of breakfast cereal. Aisle 6 is biscuits. Aisle 7 is soft drinks. Aisle 8 is lollies. I am so worn out with looking by the time I get to Aisle 9, I grab the first thing I see:
Fettuccine Napoli. Boil pasta
and add contents
, it says on the jar.
Simplistico!
I even buy a packet of parmesan cheese for that extra gourmet touch.

When I get home, Mum is asleep on the couch, the TV is blaring and there's another half-empty bottle of wine by her side. I go into the kitchen and get cracking. I fill a saucepan with water, add the pasta and put it on the stove to heat. I set the table, then open the parmesan cheese and put it in a bowl with a teaspoon, just like they do in Italian restaurants. By the time the pasta is cooked, it has soaked up most of the water. I add the
Napoli
sauce, stir it in with a big wooden spoon and pop it on the table.
Perfecto!

Mum is impressed. She says it's the best thing I've ever cooked, which is true enough, since it's also the only thing I've ever cooked.

‘Such big serves!' she says, as I am dishing up.

The pasta is a bit on the gluggy side, but with the parmesan it is almost
perfecto
. Satisfied with my first major cooking attempt, I clear the table and begin stacking the dishwasher. Mum suggests we give the leftovers to Harriet as a special treat, but the spoilt little beagle-brat turns her nose up and won't touch it.

‘How about dessert?' I say. ‘I could make pancakes.'

‘No, let's go out for coffee and cake!' says Mum.

We go to a noisy café, where the menu is written up on a blackboard. We order our cakes and suddenly Mum looks ten years younger, smiling as if I'm her best girlfriend.

‘I suppose this has put you off marriage,' she laughs.

‘It's true,' I say. ‘All men are evil.'

‘To chastity!' Mum replies, holding up her cup.

‘Hang on! I thought we were talking about marriage, not sex.'

Mum's jaw drops. ‘You haven't, have you?'

‘No, and I'm not giving up before I even start.'

‘To true love, then.'

We clink our coffee cups. ‘To true love.'

Mum looks at me sheepishly. ‘Is there anyone you . . . ?'

‘Not really.'

‘That boy who telephoned? Is he still . . . ?'

‘Not really.'

‘Are you at all . . . ?'

‘Not really.'

‘Does
not really
really mean
not really
?'

‘Not really.'

We laugh and talk. We hold hands and eat too much cake. We stay until the café closes and neither of us mentions my father once.

When we get home, the house is in darkness. Everything is just as we left it, but Mum is suddenly on red alert.

‘He's been here,' she says. ‘I can smell that disgusting perfume.'

She looks in the bedrooms. She checks the cupboards and bookshelves, but nothing is missing. Then she opens the door to the cellar . . .

While we were out, my father has snuck into the house and taken
all
the wine bottles. Not just a few favourite reds; we're talking about hundreds of bottles, some of them older than I am, all gone. Vanished into thin air. The wine cellar looks like a dungeon.

Mum goes totally bipolar. I've seen her cry before. I've seen her get angry. But I've never seen her rip up wedding photos and cut up my father's suits. I've never seen her throw his shoes onto the roof and bend his golf clubs. I've never heard her use language like that, either.

‘The gutless b******!'

Mum calls the police and reports it as a break-in. She rings up a twenty-four-hour security company and gets them to come around and change the locks. When that's done, she pours herself a whisky and slumps down on the couch.

‘We need a bigger TV!' she announces. ‘And we need Foxtel!'

Then she remembers the wine bottles and falls apart again.

WILL

When a girl like Vanessa says, ‘Let's go shopping for clothes,' you have very few options.

‘I don't like shopping', ‘I don't need new clothes' – these are not options. The school year is almost over. The break-up party is on Saturday and Vanessa is putting her foot down.

‘I'm not taking you
anywhere
in that tracksuit,' she says.

Vanessa is Versace and I am her supermodel. She is Picasso and I am her blank canvas. She is Coca-Cola and I am her billboard.

The clothing department at Target is understaffed. With our arms full of clothes, we find an empty change room. I begin trying things on while Vanessa sits outside, passing me different garments under the door. I come out to do a catwalk, so Vanessa can tell me what she thinks.