Dessi's Romance (13 page)

‘Oh no! Not
again. Quick! Get a towel, Emma.’

I race into the
bathroom and grab a couple of towels. Too late. Jodie has already spewed
everywhere.

‘That’s it! I’ve
had a gutful,’ Kaz cries. ‘I’m gonna phone her dad. Let him look after her. I’m
supposed to be on holiday not running a casualty ward.’

‘Don’t phone
him,’ Jodie groans. ‘Please, Kazza. I’ll be good from now on. I think someone
put something in my drink.’

‘And I think you
wouldn’t know. I’m going to have a shower. I don’t want to see your face for
the rest of the day. And clean up this puking mess. I have to sleep in here
too, you know? And I’d like to be able to do it without wearing a gas mask.’

‘Sorry, Kazza,’
Jodie whispers and bursts into tears.

I sigh to
myself. Sacha. And now Jodie. How are we going to take her on a cruise? If only
Dessi was here to help me cope… if only Dessi was here.

What a night! Only when grey light
filters through the window, do I finally manage to doze off. Then I dream
twice. First, I hear a bird screaming into the night. I look up to see an owl
wheeling overhead, his belly and wings bleached white as he flings himself into
the darkness. I stay awake for ages. Next time I doze off, I’m in Jon’s car in
the driver’s seat. Both Emma and Abdul are in the rear. We’re heading for that
roundabout and another car is coming straight at us. I step on the accelerator
and the car speeds up. I’m about to ram into that car… and this time the crash
will be fatal… Help! I’m about to destroy everything that’s precious to me.

I lie there
waiting for my heart to stop thumping. When I do get out of bed, it’s almost noon
and the day turning into a scorcher.

I shower and
pull on an old tee-shirt and cut-offs. Though I don’t know what dreams about
owls mean, I don’t have to be extra smart to realise that my subconscious is
telling me I’m heading for trouble. Maybe there are too many answers needed.
How come Abdul isn’t going with someone his own age? What do I know about him,
really? If only there was someone I could talk to, someone who could find out
more about him…

Leila! She
might even know Abdul. Or know someone who does. I hit Leila’s number and she
picks up the phone.

‘Dessi
here. What are you up to?’

‘Not much.
Just helping Dad with his accounts. What’s news at your end? How’s the leg?’

‘Bit
better, thanks.’

‘Hang up
and I’ll call your landline.’

I do. Leila
rings right back. ‘Can’t tell you how boring doing accounts is,’ she says as if
there’s been no break in the conversation. ‘Dad’s at me all the time. He keeps
insisting I’m muddling things up. But you should see his filing system. I
reckon it’d take a genius to clear up this mess. Almost wish I was back at
school.’

Back at
school? We shriek with laughter. It takes me ages before I mention what’s on my
mind.

‘Abdul
Malouf?’ Leila giggles. ‘That’s like asking if I know Joe Smith. What does he
look like?’

I try not
to rave. ‘Good body, about my height, long curly black hair, little cleft
beard, great eyes, eyelashes...’

‘You mean
he looks Lebanese?’

‘Huh.’ I
laugh apologetically. ‘Well, except for his hair, guess so.’

‘Maybe if I
saw him... Hey, Abdul Malouf. Isn’t this the guy Emma’s just met?’

‘Yes. But
you know how over the top she gets. I’d like to find out more about him.’

‘Don’t you
know anything?’

‘Well… only
that he’s Melbourne third year Maths.’

‘What about
his folks?’

‘They’re
originally from Batroun.’

‘What do
his olds do?’

‘She’s a
nurse. He works in the Service Department at the same hospital. There’s an
older brother Ahmed, now doing a medical internship.’

‘Is his
brother married?’

I stare at
the wall. How come I don’t know? Meanwhile Leila is saying, ‘Listen, this
Abdul… I’ll see what I can find out.’

‘Yeah...
well. It’s no big deal.’

She’s
silent a long, long moment. I suspect there’s something she wants to confide.
Finally she says, ‘Dessi, I’ve met this guy...’

‘Yeah?
Great.’ I settle back to listen. So far Leila’s run shy on men. Not that the
guys in our year didn’t like her. But what we have in common is caution. Leila
doesn’t intend giving anything away unless she’s sure the guy is worth
marrying. Being a good Muslim is important. ‘Who is he?’ I ask.

She
giggles. ‘Can you believe he’s actually Lebanese. His folks come from Beirut.’

‘You mean
your olds will like him?’

‘I know.
It’s so irritating. I was working on bringing someone home they’d really hate.’

‘So tell me
more.’

She giggles
again. ‘Harry, Lebo name Hussein, and he’s twenty. Like me, he’s born here and
now he’s at uni doing accountancy and works part time.’

‘How did
you meet?’

‘Came in
here on business and we got talking. He’s tall, and got this great body. He
admits he only understands Lebanese, can’t speak it at all. Guess his olds
wanted to assimilate ASAP.’

‘Isn’t that
different from yours?’

‘Sure is.
It’s like we end up different shades of grey. Some migrants won’t give up the
old ways and others can’t wait to get rid of them.’

We talk
lots more. If Leila is correct, Buddha and the Dalai Lama have nothing on this
Harry. She finishes off with ‘This Abdul… I’ll see what I can find out.’

‘Thanks,’
though I’ve almost forgotten my original reason for calling. Still seated by
the phone, I imagine another conversation I’d like to have:

DESSI: I
think you should know I’ve been seeing Abdul and that he’s taking me to meet
his folks. Hope you don’t mind.

EMMA:
Course not. I hope you’ll both be very happy. Anyway, I’m having a great time.
I’ve just met this fabulous guy and he’s taking me to Paris to display some of
my paintings in this famous gallery...
      

Something
hits me in the small of the back.

Turd!

‘Get off,’
he yells. ‘Stop hogging the phone.’

I grab a
crutch and use it to hit out. ‘What’s your problem?’

‘Ouch!’ He
rubs his knee. ‘Get off! I need the phone…’

‘Okay…okay…
Chill out! You don’t have to chuck a mental.’

I hop into
the kitchen. Hannah is in there. As usual she’s working. ‘How come you’re
home?’

Hannah looks
up as if astonished to see me. ‘Rostered day off. The bank owes me time.’

‘No point
staying home,’ I say snakily, ‘If all you do is work.’

‘Don’t you
start.’ Her grin is rueful. ‘I get enough from your dad.’ She stares at the
screen. ‘Right!’ She closes the laptop, starts to say something, then changes
her mind. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Okay, I
guess. This ankle still driving me crazy.’ I refuse to let her off the hook.
‘How come you’re bringing work home?’

Hannah
shrugs. ‘Everyone does. There’s heaps more work, they’ve let lots of people go,
so there’s less people to do it.’

I settle into a chair. But
there’s something more on my mind than a work schedule. What I really want is
to quiz Mum on is her relationship with Julie. Those two couldn’t be closer if
they tried. Hannah was Julie’s bridesmaid and Julie was Hannah’s
matron-of-honor. Julie is her godmother, and Hannah was the first person Julie
turned to when her marriage broke up. She says ‘Tell me again how you and
Julie met…’

March 1975, Melbourne

Hannah wove her way through the
gyrating dancers into the toilets. Two cubicles. Both locked. In cubicle one
she could hear someone throwing up.

Cubicle two? Silence. She
positioned herself in front.

A few minutes later the
door to cubicle one opened. A girl emerged. Wiping her mouth on toilet paper,
she headed into the passage.

Hannah went inside. Vomit
everywhere. The smell chased her back outside. Her bladder ready to burst, she
thumped on the other door. ‘Hurry up!’

The door swung open,
missing her by millimetres. Scowling ferociously at whoever came out, she
rushed inside, slamming it behind her. Why had she agreed to come to this crap
party anyway? Though all first years were advised to check out the clubs, in
less than an hour she knew ‘Uni-Players’ wasn’t her.

Back outside that girl was
peering at herself in the washroom mirror. Hannah took in waist length curly
fair hair, delicate features and extraordinary violet eyes, though presently
red rimmed and teary. The girl’s skin-tight jeans, Indian shirt and platform
cork sandals showed off her slight figure to perfection. Dangly silver
earrings, chunky bracelets and anklets acted as mere frosting on this pretty
cake. Even smudged eyeliner and mascara only emphasised her fragile beauty.

Ignoring a twinge of envy
— why would anyone who looked like that be crying? Hannah set to work on her
own hair. Though the girl was rubbing her eyes on damp tissues, thus
strengthening her resemblance to a pretty panda, Hannah ostentatiously ignored
her. She wasn’t ready to buy into any one else’s problems.

That mirror wasn’t really
big enough for two. But instead of leaving, taking a hint from Hannah who was
skilfully avoiding eye contact, the girl croaked as if they were halfway
through a conversation, ‘Guys… make me sick.’

Hannah found this hard to
ignore. ‘Yeah? Some. Maybe.’

The girl wriggled her shoulders
and sniffed. ‘Julie… Julie Brewer. Economics, Accountancy,’ and unexpectedly
stuck out her hand.

Hannah found herself
shaking it. ‘Hannah… Hannah Lawrence. Law.’

They looked at each other.
Neither would ever know how much they picked up through body language. But
Julie was so pretty, and so distraught, Hannah found herself saying ‘What’s
up?’

Julie choked back a sob
‘Guess… guess I’ve just been given the bum’s rush.’

‘Yeah?’ Hannah peeked at
her own reflection. What she saw was a tall skinny girl with a halo of dark
tight-curly hair, dark eyes, a slightly too prominent nose and lips that turned
up at the corners giving her a permanent smile. It was this smiley mouth which
gave off a false air of self-assurance and invited confidences from total strangers.

Blowing her nose on a clump
of soggy tissues, Julie made a poor attempt at stifling another sob. Always a
sucker for a hard luck story, before Hannah considered where this impulse might
lead, she found herself saying ‘Like a coffee

Julie’s face lit up. ‘Love
to. But aren’t you with someone?’

Hannah thought back to the
creep who’d brought her here. ‘Not really,’ she lied. ‘
Genevieve
stays open late. Coming?’

‘Right.’ Julie picked up
her bag. Quarter of an hour later, after the two were settled behind frothy
cappuccinos, it turned out Julie had been dating a Second Year Medical student
who came from a conservative Jewish family. ‘Both Ben’s parents are children of
Holocaust survivors, so I guess that’s why they’re so into their religion and
culture,’ she woefully explained. ‘And that makes me the
shikse
… gentile girl,’ at Hannah’s
questioning glance ‘…who’s messing up their son’s life.’

‘So how come he was taking
you out?’

‘The thing is,’ Julie
explained, ‘if Ben marries me his children would no longer be Jewish. So even
though he’s next generation Aussie, his parents have this girl lined up.’

‘Isn’t that old fashioned?’

‘Well, in a way I can
understand them. He’s their only child and they’re terrified of losing him.’

‘Did you ever get to meet
them?’

‘Only once. He brought me
home for a Passover night. Seems that then you’re allowed to bring a stranger
home and that stranger was me.’

‘How did they act?’

Julie spooned sugar into
her cup. ‘On the surface they were polite enough, though I could feel his mum
getting mad any time he even spoke to me. She kept on and on about this Cindy
they’re real keen on, saying how she and Ben grew up together, and how close
they’re always been. I could tell she hated having me there.’

‘So how come Ben kept on
seeing you?’

‘Suppose he likes defying
his parents,’ Julie said miserably. ‘Anyway it came to a head tonight because I
said I was sick of him pretending we weren’t dating…’ Stifling a sob she
searched her bag for more tissues.

‘And…?’

‘He said maybe his parents
were right it was time we stopped as he had no intention of upsetting his
parents by settling down with someone from a different background. Oh…’ as
Hannah tried not to let her smile get loose, ‘he had some pretty good
arguments. But what the hell.’