Dessi's Romance (4 page)

‘Poor Dessi,’ she says.
‘She can’t come to the Gold Coast either.’

Abdul’s eyes twinkle. ‘Me
neither. Boring old work for me.’

Emma uses this to jump in with,
‘Dessi will be lonely. Why not drop in on her?’

Horrified, I glance away.
Even the suggestion invokes future problems I know I won’t be able to handle.
But won’t he think me rude? I turn back to murmur, ‘You’re very welcome.’

Why did Emma suggest this?
Of course! She expects me to keep an eye on him while she’s away. No way! I
tell myself. ‘Uh...’ remembering hospitality, ‘like a coffee?’

‘No thanks.’ Abdul stands
up. ‘Got to get home.’

Emma frowns. ‘Why the
rush?’

‘Got heaps of business to
finish off. Won’t take long, I’ll pick you up around nine.’

‘Leave Chagall with me,’ I
murmur. ‘Go on.’

‘You can have him soon as
he’s weaned,’ Emma promises.

I hop back up the passage.
As the others step outside, the gate swings open. My brother Jeremy stops short
at the sight of a stranger.

‘Abdul…’ I keep a straight
face. ‘Meet my brother, Turd.’

He laughs. ‘Hi, Turd.’

Jeremy reddens. ‘Snot
face,’ he yells at me.

I grin. ‘Serves you right
for being a turd.’

He’s lunging my way when
our combined laughter stops him and he stalks into the house.

Abdul drives a twelve-year
old white panel-van. We stand around admiring it. ‘Can’t wait to get wheels,’
Emma cries. ‘Soon as I get back, I’m saving for my P’s.’

I bite my lower lip. Hasn’t
Hannah promised I can use her car soon as I get mine? But how can I drive a car
with a broken right ankle?

The others slide into the
van. Emma waves good-bye. I manage to keep smiling until they disappear, then
make my way back inside, my thoughts focussed on Abdul. I like his looks, his
intelligence. Yes, he is truly gorgeous. But Emma is my closest friend, and she
can get suicidally low. I think back to that bad time after her dad left home.
Even after she started to calm down, and date, both the guys she chose were
disasters. How I would hate for this to happen again.

Personally, I’m proud of
possessing an internal ‘fail-safe device’. Look at how well I handled that
breakup with Jon McKenna. If it wasn’t for that accident, I would almost have
forgotten he even existed.

Back in my
chair, still restless, still mildly bilious, in pain and totally exhausted, I
flick the remote and come to a program on Indigenous Affairs. Three weeks ago,
I’d hoped to take Anthropology as part of my degree. But now, how will I cross
a campus on crutches?

I raise the
remote and shoot the TV.

‘Listen to this!’ Julie’s
cry comes from the living room.

The morning
after my big date with Abdul, I emerge half asleep from my room. ‘What is it?’

Julie is
clutching a sheet of paper. ‘This came in the mail.’ Her voice is low and
wobbly. ‘From the clinic.’

‘What clinic?’ I
ask impatiently.

‘You know, where
I had that mammogram.’

‘Give it here.’
I sit beside her. Suddenly my eyes won’t focus: ‘…discrepancies in your
results…nine times out of ten…a biopsy…counseling available
...
’

Fear pricks at
me. ‘Oh, Mum!’

Julie’s face is
grey. ‘Emma, what if I’ve got cancer…’

‘Look… LOOK
right here.’ I do my best to ignore a heart-hiccup because I know this is Mum’s
usual way of demanding attention. If only she could find a new partner to take
some of the strain off me. Sure, she has Hannah to confide in, but having a
close friend isn’t enough… not when Hannah has a new job, Graham is renovating
and Dessi is laid up with a broken ankle.

I shove the
letter under her nose. ‘Read it again. Nine times out of ten it says it’s
probably nothing. Those machines make mistakes. You don’t feel sick, do you?’

‘No, but
...
’

‘Have you felt a
lump or anything? Is that why you had the mammogram? Why didn’t you tell me?’

Julie is still
pretty if a little plump, and though I love using her as a model, telltale
lines around her eyes and mouth says lots about her anxieties, many to do with
her health. She says, ‘I thought I did tell you. And no, I didn’t detect a
lump or anything. I do that test every two years.’

She’s making too
big a deal about this, I decide.

‘I suppose I
could ask Hannah to go with me,’ she says slowly. ‘Seeing you won’t be here,’
she adds in her little-girl-martyr voice.

I refuse to be
blackmailed. ‘Yeah, great,’ I cry. ‘Of course Hannah will go with you.’

‘They say cancer
can be brought on by stress.’ Her mouth falls into discontented lines and her
chin wobbles slightly. ‘It’s been very stressful since your father left.’

Here we go
again! In my opinion there’s nothing wrong with Julie that a well-paid job
wouldn’t cure. Three years since my dad Robert left with ‘that little slut of a
secretary’. Not that I’ve ever met Laura, or even had much contact with him
apart from birthday and Christmas presents. Still, I can tell Julie a thing or
two about ‘stress’ and how that break-up affected me. But she doesn’t want to
hear. She’s too busy being the wronged wife. I groan to myself. Half the kids
in my class have divorced parents and the mums usually find a new job, a new
partner, a new life.

She begins to
cry. Oh no, not this again. If only I could float away like Chagall’s young
lovers. Despite my growing anger, I can’t help feeling sorry for her, so I give
her a big hug, keep my tone light, and say, ‘Come on, Mum… You’ll be okay. It’s
sure to be a mistake. Like a coffee?’

She sniffles
into her hanky, blows her nose and nods. ‘Do you think coffee is a carcinogen?’
she asks in a small voice.

I grit my teeth.
‘I don’t know, Mum.’ Brewing coffee, I watch her. She doesn’t look sick, but
like she always does: untidy and overweight. Nothing that some exercise, a
decent haircut and a job wouldn’t cure. As usual she’s over-reacting. The phone
rings. I answer it and heave a sigh of relief. ‘It’s for you, Mum. Hannah.’

Great, I’m off
the hook.

Next day, and
because I know this conversation will be fraught, I’ve left it for the last
minute to say casual-like, ‘Might go and see Robert while I’m up there. What do
you think, Mum?’

She isn’t keen.
I can tell by the way her mouth scrunches up and her chin wobbles. ‘Why would
you want to do that? I thought you were still mad at him. I know I
am. Anyway, you two haven’t
spoken in ages. Why the sudden change?’

‘See how they live?
Maybe get some money out of him?’

‘He sends just
enough to keep us going, no more than he has to. You know that, Em. And you
also know what a struggle it’s been to keep you at school.’          

She seems to
forget that I’ve worked part-time in the supermarket-from-hell since I was
fifteen. No thanks for being independent.

‘Doesn’t matter
about my feelings, does it?’ she adds in her little girl voice.

‘He did send me
$500 towards this trip.’ I remind her. ‘The least I can do is visit.’

‘Please
yourself.’ She picks up her copy of
What
Your Dreams Mean
to show this discussion is
over
.

If only I earned
enough to move away from home friend, but not for the first time, do I envy her
for everything, except of course, this la. Lucky Dessi never has these
problems. I love Dessi, can’t imagine life without my closest test disaster.
If Julie
could only find a decent job, maybe she could spare some extra cash for her
daughter. Though I usually spend every cent I earn on art materials and
vintage clothes, this time I’ve managed to save $800. Plus the $500 Dad sent
me. If I’m careful that should be enough. Clever Dessi found that by booking
our own airfares and accommodation rather than going through the official
‘Schoolies Travel’ we’d save heaps. So now we’re staying in a high-rise unit at
Broadbeach. Everyone else will be in Surfers, but I’ve checked this out and
Broadbeach is only a bus-ride away.

All the same,
I know I’m going to miss Dessi. And I worry that she’ll get too depressed
back here all alone. The truth is, I feel responsible for that accident. Didn’t
I ask Jon for a lift when she was so against it? I sigh to myself then say,
‘Mum, I’m going to finish packing,’ and escape to my room.

This doesn’t
take long because I’ve heard that there’s great shopping on the Coast. I double
check that my sketchbook, charcoal, fine-line pens, the small box of water colour
crayons, cell phone and iPod are in my second backpack. Dessi wants me to
phone/ sketch/ text. It’s the least I can do.

I check my
watch. Abdul should be here by now.

I’d asked him to
drive me to the airport. At first he agreed, then looked doubtful, so maybe I
did
push too much. Still, we
have
seen each other twice
already, once when I took him to meet Dessi and later when he picked me up and
took me to Chapel’s. Or maybe that only counts as once.

Still, when he
brought me home, I made us a coffee and then showed him some of my latest work.
His comments were perceptive. What a relief after Danny who wouldn’t know a
Renoir from a Picasso and cared even less. Julie was in bed snoring lightly so
I expected us to continue where we’d left off. But he shook his head and stood
up to leave. ‘Got an early morning meeting, and I’m flat out all tomorrow. But
I’ll try and get you to the airport. If I can’t, I’ll call.’

Yet it’s gone
eleven, I have to be there by one, and I still haven’t heard. I call his cell
phone. Voicemail. I try his landline. Waiting, I peer at my reflection, wonder
if I need a darker lipstick, but then maybe my lips are pink enough with just a
slick of gloss
...

‘Yes?’ A woman,
Abdul’s mother? has picked up the phone

‘Hullo.’ I say
in my politest voice, ‘Is Abdul there, please?’

‘Abdul not here.
Who is this?’

‘Uh… Emma… Emma
Simpson.’

‘Oh.’

She’s not
exactly encouraging. ‘Did he say anything about taking me to the airport, Mrs
Malouf?’ I press on.

‘Airport? Abdul
say nothing about airport. He gone out.’ She hangs up.

I have that old
familiar sinking feeling. So far all the men in my life have proven themselves
unreliable. Should be an Olympics for men I angrily think; gold medals for
deserting fathers and ‘on and off again’ lovers.

I find Julie
reading her horoscope. ‘Mum, can you drive me to Tullamarine?’

She doesn’t look
up. ‘Thought Abdul was taking you.’

‘Well he’s not
here and I don’t want to miss the plane.’

‘Oh, all right I
suppose,’ she says, reluctant. ‘Though you know how expensive it is filling the
car and there’s the toll.’

‘Can we call
into Dessi on the way?’

‘No. Won’t be
time.’

I did speak to
Dessi earlier on, but feeling a bit lost, I phone her again.

‘Isn’t Abdul
there?’

‘Uh, no,’ I
mumble though it reinforces the idea that he isn’t as interested in me as I am
in him.

‘What a bummer!’
Dessi feels for my disappointment.

‘He said he’ll
call you while I’m gone.’ And determined to ignore my inner feeling and knowing
I can always depend on her, I add, ‘Find out why he didn’t come, will you?’

‘Sure. Stay
safe. I wish…how I wish I was coming with you.’ I can tell she’s on the verge
of tears.

‘I’ll text so
often you’ll be happy not to hear from me. Just look after yourself…will you?’

‘Course,’ she
murmurs. ‘Have a great time. Promise?’

‘Promise.’

Julie’s driving is haphazard
and we only dodge one of those double loaders by a hand’s breadth. As we cross
Westgate Bridge, I refuse to brood about Abdul. Instead I decide this would be
a great place to take photos for a series of paintings showing clouds and light
altering at different times of the day. Mum’s mind still on her latest problem,
she dumps me at the departures entrance and drives away.

‘Hi, Emma,’ Kaz
yells as she and Jodie rush over. ‘We’ve got to check in. Hurry up. You
should’ve got here sooner.’

The queue to get
through security seems endless and we’re the last to board. Settled beside Kaz
and Jodie, I feel a terrible pang of loss that Dessi isn’t beside me. I look
out to fluffy white clouds like peaks of cake frosting and between gaps, a
crazy patchwork-landscape. I break this up in my mind, aware that only in new
ways can I capture its essence. Whenever my thoughts drift to wondering why
Abdul didn’t bother calling, I tell myself he must’ve lost my number.

Two hours later
after all the magazines are read and we’ve spent too much on snacks and drinks,
and I’ve listened to Kaz and Jodie’s endless squabbling, we arrive on the Gold
Coast. I marvel at a sky that is so clear and blue it makes my eyes water.
Fishing in my backpack for sunglasses, I slide them on to absorb grass and
trees so richly green nothing seems real.