The Mimosa Tree (18 page)

After turning down Harm's lunch offer I am forced, once again, to feed from the library vending machine. As Felicia drives us home I am munching away on my third chocolate bar, but no closer to feeling satisfied.

‘I can't believe you're dating someone called Guido,' I say, as Felicia pauses in her regurgitation of every detail of her lunch date. ‘Sounds like someone who makes pizza.'

‘That is such a stereotype, Mira, you should be ashamed of yourself. At least Guido is a noun and not a verb. What kind of name is Harm? Talk about asking for trouble.'

‘Well that turns out to be strangely true,' I say, taking another bite of my chocolate bar. ‘So, what does Guido do when he's not making pizza?'

‘He's a physicist.' Her eyes open wide as she wraps her lips around this word. There is obviously something very special to her about a guy that likes pocket protectors.

‘Wow. That's so interesting. So what exactly does a physicist
do?' I say, picturing Guido as a big-nosed, curly-haired Einstein flipping pizza dough and singing ‘La Donna è Mobile'.

‘Research. He just got a job with a very prestigious science institute.'

‘Amazing,' I say, placing a hand on my chest and nodding slowly. It's nice to practise sarcasm on someone who just doesn't get it.

‘I'm glad you think so. You can tell him that when you meet him.'

‘Sure. Let me know when you have lunch again.'

‘Actually,' she says biting that fingernail again. ‘I kind of mentioned that you might join us for dinner on Saturday night.'

In my mental image of Guido the music stops and the pizza dough falls over the pizza-maker-scientist's face with a floury puff.

‘Dinner? I'm not coming on your date with you!'

‘It'll just be friends sharing a meal.'

‘Haven't you heard that three's a crowd?'

‘That's not going to be a problem,' she says smiling. ‘Because actually, there's going to be four of us. Guido is bringing his cousin. He's a weirdo like you apparently, so we thought it would be nice to get you together.'

‘Oh you're crazy.'

‘It will be fun! Now that Harm dumped you it's not like you have anything better to do.'

‘Thanks, Felicia. Reminding me of that will make sitting next to Mr and Mrs Perfect at the dinner table so much easier to handle.'

‘Come on, Mira! You never want to meet any of my friends! Wouldn't it be nice to meet some new people? I really like this guy.'

I look at her look at me. Her mouth is all puckered up and pleading.

‘Oh fuck,' I say sliding back down in my seat and shoving the rest of my chocolate bar into my mouth. ‘This friend stuff is turning out to be overrated. Life was a lot easier when I didn't have any.'

‘It was easier for your current friends too.'

‘Very funny. Is it really that important to you that I like him? I'm not the one going out with him.'

‘It's important to me that all my friends get along.'

I rub my eyes as I feel a headache coming on. I knew I should never have looked at her music collection.

‘Fine,' I say, and she claps her hands gleefully, bounces up and down in her seat so that the car jiggles. ‘But this is your date, not mine. If his cousin turns out to be a real loser I am not being nice to him just to be polite. Got that?'

‘That's something I would never expect of you, Mira.'

‘So where are we going?' I say as we pull into my driveway. ‘Some flash restaurant I suppose. I'm guessing physicists don't go out for hamburgers.'

‘Actually, Guido's father owns a restaurant.'

‘Italian?' I say getting out of the car. She nods and starts reversing out of the driveway. When she's on the street she winds her window down and hangs her head out.

‘It's a pizza restaurant,' she says with a grin. ‘You don't have a problem with that, do you?'

‘Not at all,' I say and smile back. ‘I love Italian stereotypes.'

‘Me too,' she says and she drives away with a laugh.

I watch her disappear around the corner then drag my backpack to the front door. Once again there is no smell of food in the air and no sign of Mum coming out to welcome me back into her strong, fleshy arms. It's such a small thing, and I don't expect it since the treatments started, but when I get home and she's not there, smiling and smelling of garlic, I get this little ache of sadness. The only thing greeting me at the door today is the vacuum cleaner. I follow the sounds of my aunts shouting at each other in the kitchen.

‘Have you learnt
nothing?
' says Via, slamming a chicken onto the chopping board. She picks up the cleaver and hacks through the thighbone, spitting blood and fat across the bench and onto the floor. ‘I thought after everything that has happened you would have more sense.'

‘I'm investing it in my future. You don't think that is sensible?'

‘It's too
risky.
What do you know about food?'

‘Quite a bit, actually.'

‘Ha!' says Via as another leg gets severed. ‘Because you read those stupid magazines? That's not real food, that's...' She jabs the bloody knife at Siena as she grasps for the right words. ‘That's just
pictures.
'

‘I've been thinking about this for years, Via,' says Siena looking whimsical. ‘I've imagined everything about running my restaurant. I know the colour of the tablecloths, I know the menus and I know the coffee I want to serve. I've planned it down to the last detail, and with the money Robert has given me I can finally make it happen.'

‘You got money from Robert?' I say, shocked that nobody has mentioned this to me. To miss big news like this means I am really out of the loop. ‘How much did you get?'

‘Enough to start my own business,' says Siena.

‘Enough to buy a
house,
' says Via cracking the chicken's backbone with her palm.

‘I can buy a house with the money I make from the business.'

Via laughs. ‘Who do you think you are? You think you are a millionaire like,
Alan Bond?
You're just a silly girl. You don't know anything about business!'

‘I can learn what I need to know. I can go to school.'

Via puts down the cleaver and leans forward on the counter. Her hands squelch in a pool of chicken juice. ‘Listen to me; why do you want to make things difficult for yourself? If you use the money to buy a house, then you can get a little job, just enough to put food on the table, and you never have to worry about anything again! You can work in a restaurant if you love food so much. Plenty of jobs washing dishes or serving tables. You watch what you spend, put a little bit of money away into the bank and every now and then you buy yourself something nice. What more do you want than that? It's the best thing for you, can't you see that?'

‘Via, I'm not going to be happy living that way. I need to do something with my life, I have to know that I can make it on my own.'

‘You will lose
everything,
' says Via through clenched teeth.

‘Maybe. But I have to try. I may never have this chance again.'

Via grunts and goes to the sink. She rinses her hands then
dries them with her skirt. ‘I have told you what I think. Now if you want to ruin your life that is your business. I am not going to say anything more about it.' And she wipes her hands to indicate she is finished with this conversation. She finds another chopping board and starts dicing up some carrots.

Siena looks shocked and I must admit, I am too. If Via thinks something is right, she doesn't give up until it happens. It seems Siena has gotten off too easily. I think we both imagine it's some kind of trick and we watch her carefully, waiting for her next move, but Via looks completely disinterested. She hums to herself as she works.

‘Well,' says Siena tentatively. ‘I'll go finish the vacuuming then.'

‘That would be great,' says Via. ‘Don't
you
have something to do?' she says to me. ‘Because if you don't I can find you something.'

‘I'm going to study,' I say and grab a banana from the fruit bowl and head to my room.

I am sitting on the floor next to the oven, watching the timer wind through its last ten minutes. Having missed out on a proper lunch and afternoon snack I am well and truly on the way to digesting my own stomach. Saliva is gathering in my mouth in anticipation and I swallow and rub my stomach to get through the hunger pangs.

‘MUM!' I shout as the oven finally buzzes. ‘Dinner is ready!'

I open the oven door and turn my face away to avoid the
steam. I find out too late that I have not folded the tea towel enough times to protect me from the heat of the tray and I almost end up dropping dinner on the floor as I throw it on the counter. Dad peels himself from the couch then stomps into the kitchen to take his place at the table. Armed with more tea towels I carry the hot tray to the table and start to dish out our meal.

‘MUM!' I shout again.

‘Shhh!' says Dad, putting a hand up as the nightly news resumes after the ads. Keeping his hand up for silence, he listens carefully to the tale of a family whose dog ran away when they relocated to a new city. After a few months they finally gave up hope of ever finding it again, assuming it must have been run over by a car or taken in by some other family. A year later, they get a call to say that their dog has shown up at their old house, three hundred kilometres away, skinny and a little scratched up but happy to be home. I spoon up a big serve of chicken for myself, rip a chunk of bread and begin to eat hungrily.

‘Bloody dogs,' says Dad, turning back to the table and ignoring the next story about Reagan's challenge to Gorbachev to tear down the Berlin Wall. ‘You can't get
rid
of the bastards.'

‘MUM!' I shout again because there are still no signs of her coming to join us. I shove as much food into my mouth as I can before going to see what's holding her up.

As I approach the bedroom door I can hear her soft breathing and by the dim hallway light I can just make out her shape under the covers. As she has been dozing for most of the afternoon, I think nothing of climbing onto the bed with her
and shaking her awake. She spits and snorts as she struggles to come back into consciousness.

‘What time is it?' she says, putting a hand over her eyes.

‘Dinnertime,' I say and fall back onto the bed so that I am lying beside her. I put my arms under my head and begin to bounce gently on the mattress.

‘Stop it, Mira,' she cries, throwing her arm outwards so that it falls heavily across my belly. It doesn't hurt at all, but the shock of receiving an unexpected blow to the stomach makes me jackknife and causes the mattress to bounce again.

I laugh, but Mum moans in agony. ‘Stop
moving,
' she says holding her face. ‘It's making me sick.'

‘You still feeling nauseous? I thought they said that would go away after a couple of weeks.'

‘I think it's getting worse.'

I lay my arm gently against her shoulder.

She opens one eye to look at me and smiles but I can tell she is putting it on for my benefit. ‘Not long to go. I will get better soon then everything goes back to normal, okay?'

‘Good. Because I'm getting sick of Via's cooking,' I lie. Actually, not having pasta every night is turning out to be quite a treat. Not to mention that Via has adopted the Australian tradition of dessert, and she often leaves me some kind of slice or ice-cream.

‘You going to get up and have dinner with us, Mum? Via made chicken. And apple pie.'

‘Maybe later. Okay darling?'

‘You've been in bed all day,' I say, and I am ashamed to admit that I am a bit whiny about it. I want her out there with me,
eating and arguing with Dad.

‘I'm sure the doctors are right. I'll start feeling better soon. You go eat if you are hungry.' And she closes her eyes and I know she is not going to change her mind.

I give her a kiss on the head and a final hug that I think makes her feel sick again, then I head back to the table where Dad is sopping up pools of oily chicken gravy with his bread. I sit down and pick up my fork, but as I look at my plate I realise I have lost my appetite. It doesn't help that Dad is making loud squelching noises as he chews, and slurping gravy from his fingers.

I push my plate away in disgust.

‘Finish it,' he says, wiping his hands with the tablecloth.

‘I don't want it.'

‘Throw it away then. It's that easy for you, isn't it? Never been poor, never been hungry. People
died
of hunger where I was born, do you know that?'

I sigh and push back from the table. This old story again. He never seems to miss an opportunity to whine about how hard things were for him as a kid, like he's the only one that ever suffered. He grew up in the war, he was poor and stuff but so was Mum and I never hear her whingeing about it like he does. The worst part of it is that he seems to want to make me feel guilty about where I am, like not being poor and hungry is something to be ashamed of.

‘You'd like it if I starved to death, wouldn't you?' I say. ‘It would make you feel so much happier if I was suffering. I can't help where I was born. I can't help it if I live somewhere with lots of food.'

He curls his upper lip as he picks his back teeth with his fingernail. ‘You have everything but you appreciate nothing. Do you have any idea what it's like to grow up in a war? To see your family dying around you and wondering when you are going to be next?'

‘Everyone grows up in war. You are nothing special.'

‘Don't be stupid, Mira. Where is
your
war?'

‘If you don't know, then you haven't been paying attention. We're still at war, it's the Cold War and every day we wonder if this is the day the bombs get dropped. In my war, it's not just the house or the village church we worry about losing. It's the whole goddamn planet. You escaped from your war because there were still places to run to. In my war there is nowhere to hide.'