Fragments (3 page)

Our family’s property faced the main river, and we were even lucky enough to have our own nook - like a small lake or billabong - to swim in. Surrounded by gum trees, it was our own rustic oasis. A brisk two-minute walk would see you with your feet twinkling in the river itself, but heaven help you if my mother saw you do it.  The lake was the only place where we were allowed to swim.  Each year at least one backpacker would attempt to swim our mighty river, and said backpacker was

often found dead a few days later, so it was understandable why my mother was so strict.

If the river was my solace, then my room was my haven. I spent a lot of time making my room just right - it was the place where I could be myself without distraction while blocking out any hurt. Sadly at sixteen, I was all too familiar with feeling alone. As effervescent as my family was - the happiness of my parents’ marriage, their love did not cocoon me from the dismal loneliness that I faced at school
when the bullies attacked me and nothing was done about it.  My saving grace was my friends and my older brother, Robbie, who was eighteen, as well as an unlikely friendship with his best friend, Alex.

We lived in a two-story weatherboard house that my parents built themselves. Our home had soft yellow weatherboards, a wraparound porch, and a beautiful wooden staircase. The eucalyptus trees were a constant reminder of being in the country; in winter, their scent was dulled, however, in summer they had a strong pungent scent that enveloped our house.
It made our parents feel truly Australian, even though they could never fully relinquish their Italian traditions. Walking through our house, the smell of my mother’s sauce cooking was a constant reminder of this. The stark white walls contrasted with the colourful paintings and photos that showcased how proud my parents were of our achievements.  Set on a large property with our own private swimming hole, our house did seem extravagant, but it wasn’t a sign of wealth in a entitled sense. The hours my parents spent working multiple jobs, on weekends and nights to give us a future, were what created our home. 

Summer brought with it the dry, stifling heat, and our daily routine consisted of trudging through the days after sleepless nights and frustrated mornings with only the occasional gust of wind.  Going to school was unbearable.  We caught the bus with hard, cracked leather seats, where the sweat would bead down our backs and leave us soaking under our legs. More often than not, before we had even arrived at school, we were already flustered and worn. Rising up from the seat, our school dresses would stick to our arse and be plucked off quickly, while turning to check if we had left a sweat stain on the seat. With a quick wipe of your hand, the sweaty seat would disappear, but not before you heard about it from the bitches on the bus.

I wandered downstairs from my bedroom to the kitchen. My mother stood by the stove, monitoring her sauce for tonight. Tendrils of rosemary, basil, and oregano wafted through the rooms, soothing me with its familiar scent of being home. Next to it, a pot simmered, cooking our brodo or chicken soup as my friends knew it. Despite it already being the peak of summer, we would usually have a hot meal for lunch and always one for dinner.  My mother also had a strong inclination to use deodorizers throughout the house. The sickly sweet smells of lavender and rose assaulted my senses and usually left me with a blinding headache. As often as she turned on the ones with the sensor, I would swiftly turn them off.

I was tall like her, five-foot-eight, but with brown hair. Her body was curvaceous and reminded me of a 50s pin-up model.  Her eyes, dark as molten chocolate, were the key factor in determining what mood she was in. If they were black, it was best to step back.  She wore an emerald green capped-sleeved, V-neck, buttoned dress that gathered under the bust while flowing into an A-line skirt. She looked right out of an advert for Coca Cola in the 50s. Her curves were abundant, yet she held them with grace and dignity. She never looked unkempt in case someone was to ‘drop in.’

Unlike my mamma, I didn’t care about guests. Our heights made us seem similar, yet we were so different. Her short, straight black hair was cut and set regularly into a perfect bob, which contrasted with my long, brown, messy, wavy curls. We had the same colouring, yet where she neatly presented, I was scruffy. My unruly hair was the bane of my existence, and more so in this tempered heat. My hairstyle of choice was often a messy bun at the top of my head, with a pencil or two helping to secure it if I had been studying.

My hunger lingered so, while the kitchen itself felt hot, I quickly walked past her and opened the fridge for a moment’s reprieve as I investigated its contents. Our air conditioner functioned well, however when up against a four-burner stove heavily occupied with all sorts of dishes, it failed to compensate.    

“Mamma, aren’t you hot?” I asked while fanning myself with the fridge door. “It’s boiling already.” She turned and looked at me, rolling her eyes.

“You,
gioventú
, are weak. Back in my day, we didn’t have air conditioners or these gas stoves. Be grateful. Stop doing that to my fridge!”

I jumped, barely missing the saucy tip of the wooden spoon that stood inches from me. Any closer and my shirt would be stained by it. She pointed the spoon closer to my face, scolding me with it in her hand.  Regardless of what she was doing, whenever she was in the kitchen, she would communicate using whichever utensil was in her hand. If you were looking for something, she’d point; if she was telling you about some gossip, it would be used to punctuate the story highlights, and all while cleverly not spilling food onto the floor. If you were naughty, the utensil became the world’s fastest ninja move, connecting with your arse and back by her side before you could blink an eye.

I released the door and sheepishly looked at her. Once again, my mamma had managed to both scold and spread a thick wad of guilt over me. You weren’t a true Italian mamma if you didn’t make your children feel guilty at least once a day. 

“Yeah, yeah. What’s for lunch?” I asked, looking into our fridge, trying to find something to eat. Her homemade produce lined the shelves, with gentle wafts of peaches and nectarines permeating my nostrils.  Some of our fruit trees were in season, so a selection of half-full jars of peach jam were already made and used. As my hand lingered over the cheese drawer, I stole a glance at the cake she had obviously made earlier - cheesecake lined with slivered almonds. This often meant that someone was coming over. Good impressions were imperative to my parents, and Mamma’s cheesecake was definitely that. Despite all the options, nothing grabbed me.

A loud slam of the dining room door stole my attention away from the cake. It was followed closely by the stomping of heavy footsteps. Around the corner from our kitchen bench, my father, brother Robbie, and Alex came barrelling through, a look of determination on their faces. For a moment, I worried that something was wrong until my brother started yelling.

“Mamma, we’re hungry. Feed us!”

Instead of throwing the wooden spoon at him, Mamma laughed. For some reason, she adored his playful nature. This bothered me more than I would like to admit.

“Robbie, don’t be a dickhead. Just ask nicely.” I grabbed the ladle and began pouring the soup into large bowls, being careful to avoid the steam from stinging my eyes. Mamma, instead, stood there glaring at me, again. 

“Your tongue needs soap. Do not use that language in my house.” A quick peek over at Robbie saw him chuckle and stick his tongue out at me. I clenched my teeth, ready to bite back, when all of a sudden, my father’s hand came out and retreated quick as lightning, slapping Robbie on the side of the head.

“Ah, Dad, what did you…” but my father’s scowl cut him off.

“Do not ever talk to your mamma like that and leave your tongue in your mouth.” I smiled triumphantly at Robbie.
Take that! Arsehole. 

“Well, it’s safe to say it’s never dull over here.” Alex piped up while I scowled at him. Alex never left my brother’s side.  He was more at home with Robbie by his side, than at his own home.

To call my brother a ‘golden child’ would be an understatement. He was both striking in appearance and in personality. He could commandeer any room or conversation and anyone nearby would feel the gravitational pull and linger on his every word. He was so incredibly animated. Every story he told seemed over exaggerated, yet he got away with it. It drove me insane and Alex and I seemed to be the only ones who would call him on his bullshit. Luckily, I was Daddy’s little girl, so Father would only interfere if Robbie was being a direct arse to me.  Yet, despite his fan club being half of the skanky girls in my year level, when he wasn’t being an arse, he was a decent big brother.

Robbie’s melted chocolate eyes and short curly hair were a popular subject at school. He carried himself like a strong rugby player, as he had large shoulders and often worked out in our garage with the small selection of weights. Both he and Alex thrived on seeing who could ‘out lift’ who. His eyes and hair were definitely from our father as his were also dark. Unfortunately for my father, he had grown a beer belly from a life of over indulgence in beer and rich food, yet he nevertheless seemed youthful with his still naturally dark hair - mostly due to the gel he slicked through it.

Alex, well, he was chalk to Robbie’s cheese. Where Robbie was dark, Alex was fair. Despite Alex’s strong shoulder set, he still looked soft in comparison. He was a blue-eyed, blond, spiky-haired athlete. He looked more at home in a beach setting rather than a dirty river, though he hated the sea.  He thought it was okay to look at, but his aversion to saltwater made his allegiance to the river stronger. Where Robbie was the enthusiastic storyteller, Alex held a serious stance, especially if he spoke about something that he was passionate about.  The only time I ever saw him being a bit goofy was when he was around my family or teasing me. His smile, though, could wipe out a hoard of women when he used it. He, too, was lusted over by the slutty girls in my year level.  A sly wink and his megawatt smile just about got him whatever or whomever he wanted.  That smile never worked on me, though. I had years of being used to it and was immune to that bullshit. 

“If someone would help me, we could eat at a reasonable time.” Mamma glared at me. For some reason, being a female often meant helping my mamma with the house setup.

“Yeah, yeah,” I answered. I approached the table and delivered the steaming hot bowls one by one to everyone.

“What have you boys been doing anyway? You looked like there was a drama or something.” I asked Robbie. He sat at the dining table, pouring drinks in the glass that Mamma had previously set, while fanning himself with a newspaper.

“There are a few wild dogs or dingoes breaking into the chicken coop. We were trying to make it safer for Bjork and her ladies.” Bjork was our Rhode Island red chicken. She was almost as loved as our German Sheppard Pret. Six years ago, Dad had come home from one of the markets with four baby chickens, thinking our mamma would appreciate fresh eggs. She didn’t. She just thought it looked like extra work.

“So, Bjork is all right?” I asked, returning to the table with the bread and butter plates and setting them out, worried momentarily as we had grown fond of our family chicken.

“Yeah, they’re all fine. We’ve set some concrete around the edge to stop the digging,” he replied, reaching for the bread rolls.

Mamma approached a table with a platter of cutup meats, cheese, and other sandwich fillings. We all dug in hungrily, the gentle munching of rolls with the soft sounds of my father’s slurping echoing throughout the room. Mid-chew the house phone rang, but none of us wanted to move.

“Robbie,” I chewed, “You get it, it’s probably one of your ‘lady’ friends.”

He gulped down his juice and replied, “Hardly, Trice. I’m not available during the day.”

I looked at him and while Mamma huffed and got up to answer the phone, I mouthed
whore
to my brother while he mouthed
virgin
back at me, as my face heated in a blush.  Cheeky shit.

“Robbie!” Mamma yelled, “It’s one of those girls you were talking about.” We all burst out in laughter, while Robbie choked on his bite.  The girl on the phone would have heard what our mother said and automatically what she thought of her. 

Robbie rushed to the phone, and covered the mouthpiece to stifle our laughter. When he finally swallowed the rest of his roll, he tentatively answered.

“Hello?” followed closely by, “Oh, hey Rach…. No, what’s that? No, babe, there’s no one else. It’s just my mamma messing with you.”

I covered my mouth holding in another laugh, looking straight at Alex while grinning widely. He held his right hand up the ceiling like he had scored a goal. 

Once lunch was finished, I went back to my room to prepare for the lake. My friends Trinity, Hazel and Theo were due to arrive soon. Anytime we had a spell of this dry heat, our friends bombarded our lake. I rushed in and changed into my black one-piece suit and put my board shorts over the top. I grabbed my Paul Frank towel (anything with a monkey on it just cracked me up) and slipped into my thongs then searched for my sunglasses, hat, and sunscreen.  Even though I had an olive complexion, I hated being burned.  My skin peeled easily, and since I had been dancing from a young age, our teacher would get cranky if we didn’t take care of ourselves.

Once I left my room and went downstairs to the kitchen, I stole a glance at Alex and Robbie who were chatting quietly in the lounge room. I could hear a murmur of appreciation followed by a cheer and high five. When they spotted me, their mouths stopped moving as Robbie shot forward on the couch and adjusted his shoe.  All the while Alex just smiled at me, acting cool as a cucumber. I had interrupted a private discussion. They usually had their ‘man chats’ in Robbie’s room, and if his window was open, I often heard every single word. My MP3 player was used and abused during that time. I knew too much about the girls at my school and how little they cared about themselves.