Fragments (15 page)

“I know you kids are afraid of how these idiots will respond. You must remember—they are not Italian and they should be afraid of you.”

I sniffed and continued gazing back at her as she continued, “We have thick blood, warrior blood, and these things will not bring us down. You are no longer going to be weak.”

I shuddered. My shame for keeping the bullying a secret covered me like a thick blanket. How was it fair that the victim was left to felt ashamed? Why we were the ones who were made to suffer?

“I’m so sorry, Mamma. I just didn’t want to be hurt more than I already was. I … ah, I just thought it would eventually stop.”  Before she could respond, we heard the unmistakeable sound of a car horn beeping four times. That sound to me was as familiar as a voice. Nonna had arrived. I’d thought my nerves were already on high alert, but they were going to be put into overdrive. 

“
Ciao
, Nonna!” Robbie greeted her downstairs. I could picture her grabbing his cheeks and giving him a sloppy kiss on both sides while commenting on his weight. Sure enough, I heard the faint word “
magro
” being said. We were never ‘big’ enough for her. Any opportunity to feed us, despite whether we had already eaten, she would take, as if she thought we hadn’t eaten for a week. We knew that even ‘just a coffee’ at Nonna’s resulted in soup, followed by cutlets, a salad, and then a four-cheese platter to finish. She was also guilty of introducing us to sweet liquors that my friends would be jealous of. Oh the joys of being barely ten and having your Nonna tell you to add a shot of Baileys to your milkshake to bring out the flavour. Robbie being male, though, copped the heavy clear spirits like Grappa, which we referred to as ‘snake oil,’ to ‘put hair on his chest’. Any Aussie would have thought we were raging alcoholics, but it was just the European way. In some ways, it taught us to be sensible around alcohol. The parties that we attended with friends never gave us the temptation to go overboard. My mamma used to tell us that if we wanted to try something, we should open a cupboard and select a bottle. We never did, though.

I braced myself against my mother while I listened to Nonna’s footsteps coming up the stairs. I sat on my bed and stared at the door, waiting for her to reach it. By now my mother had put her arm around my shoulder and was squeezing it in comfort.

Soon, Nonna was on the landing outside my door. She handed her handbag to Robbie, who was behind her. She was dressed as she usually was: a blue dress with short sleeves and large round white buttons that trailed from the V-neck to her knees. It had square pockets that usually contained a handkerchief or mints to chew on. Like always, her hair looked immaculate in its set perm. She never let her greys through, so with her scheduled hair appointments, she kept it dyed to a medium toned brown. She never went darker as she was a proud Northern Italian, and didn’t want to be confused with a southerner, who was typically dark haired. 

She entered and glanced around noticing my mother. Pointing to both of her and then at Robbie, she barked, “
Uscite
!
Leave!”

My mother frowned and gestured with her hand curled into herself, asking
what for?
Nonna, however, had other ideas.

“I want to speak to Beatrice …
da sola. Alone
.”

I cringed, knowing that I would no longer have the warmth of my mother’s hand on my shoulder within reach. I was responsible to tell my story, so I needed to take charge. Looking over to my mother I whispered to her, “It’s okay, Mamma, I’ll be fine.”

She and Robbie both sighed, but they left soundlessly. 

Nonna walked over to the rocking chair in the corner and sat gazing out the window, clasping her hands on her lap. She had yet to acknowledge me. It wasn’t often that I was afraid of her. There were few times that I could remember—like when my brother and I had broken her ‘good’ lamp, or when we had walked into her house with dirty shoes—but nothing that made me fear her like I did now. I was yet to gauge what her mood was. Her barking her orders at us was nothing new, but to sit and not acknowledge me? This was bad.   

She sighed and glanced over at me. Taking in a deep breath, she started speaking softly in Italian. “When your nonno held you for the first time …” She sighed, “… he told you that you were his little star. That you already shone so brightly that the heavens would see you from down here.” She blinked heavily, wiping a handkerchief under her left eye.

“At the time, Robbie was sitting next to Nonno on a chair, as he was too boisterous to be on his lap while Nonno cradled you. He looked down at Robbie and said, ‘You need to protect your little star here, so she will never fade.’ And your brother nodded.
Cara mia
, I look at you now, and I wonder, who has let you fade? Where has our little star gone?”

I sniffed as more tears trailed down my face.

“I let you down, Nonna. I never told you what they did. How they treated me. I was … weak.” I sobbed. She held out her arms and I climbed off my bed, wiping my eyes with my sleeve while I pulled my desk chair to get closer to her. She placed her arm over my shoulders and pulled me in close.

“From what your mother said, they were tyrants. You were not weak. You were just trying to survive. I can tell you now that I did not immigrate to this country to watch my children and grandchildren suffer. I did not work the lowest of the low jobs to put food on the table to slowly build the house your mother and uncles lived in, only for my future grandchildren to suffer. That school that your Nonno gave money to did not protect you. Tomorrow, we will go in and fix this. We will start to fix you, too.”

I sobbed harder as she held me tighter. Stroking my hair, she soothed me.

“No more tears over those girls. Tell me something, though,” she said, as she gently pushed me back to look into my eyes. “Where was Roberto? Why did he not help you?”

“I never told him, Nonna. I kept myself hidden from everyone except my friends who experienced it, too.”

She shook her head and tutted. “This is not good enough. He didn’t protect his star.” She reached across and stroked my wrist. “He let you fade. This should have never happened. Your brother should have known.”

I shook my head in disagreement. My pride had stopped me from telling my brother.  

              By evening, I was exhausted from the events of the day, as my mother and Nonna both sat in my room and questioned me about all that I had experienced. Each incident, each moment relived; my nerves experiencing it all again as though it were a fresh wound. I was once again that scared little girl smothered in guilt. Reminiscing over the daily jabs directed at my friends and I just reinforced my feeling of stupidity in not having said anything earlier. How these stupid moments were driven by the need of bullies to feel power, and I stupidly gave it to them. I played the victim well. I watched as my mother and grandmother flinched when listening to me relive the time I was kicked in the toilets, how I believed I would be safe within the stall when, in fact, it was a cage to trap me. Torrents of tears streaked down my face as I again felt the pain, and how I never, ever chose to go anywhere by myself if I could help it. 

              The next morning, I arose feeling emotionally drained. Stretching my tired limbs, I looked across at the lake, wishing I could just float away.

After a quick shower, I quickly towel-dried and got ready to face the family. I tied my hair up

in a smooth ponytail that left my face exposed to the elements; I wanted to be brave. No hiding. Just me. I squared my shoulders and left the bathroom, ready to face the inquisition. 

              Seated at the table, my brother munched on a few rashes of bacon that my mother had cooked. It surprised me, as cooked breakfasts were a rarity. Glancing across the table, I noticed a plate of frittata and another of pancakes. Both were favourites of mine. Yep, my mother was trying to soothe me with her cooking.

I filled my plate with equal portions of both and poured myself some orange juice. Robbie sat across from me with an empty plate.  In one hand he had the local paper, which was always horribly full of errors. It was where proofreading came to die—and in his other hand, a coffee. Robbie and his coffee—the only love affair he cared about. Spying me looking at him, he arched his eyebrow and grinned.

“What are you thinking over there, Trice?”

I blinked and shook my head, clearing my thoughts. “Just how old you look, reading the paper and drinking your coffee. I shall christen you, ‘Nonno’.”

He smiled and winked. “Well, at least one of us can read, it might as well be me.” He shuffled the paper for emphasis.

“You’re an idiot with lame jokes.” I knew what he was doing, and I was grateful. Silence passed and I chewed my frittata; it was delicious.

“Hey Trice, I’ve got strict orders from mamma to not come today. Apparently my temper could get you in trouble.” I chuckled as he was not wrong. My fiery big brother. 

“Also, you might want to ease up on being shitty at Alex,” he began.

I lost the smile on my face and stiffened. “Why?” I asked. I didn’t want to ease up. I just wanted to fade away from him.

“He is going through a lot of stuff at the moment.”

Before I could give it more thought, the soft patter of footsteps coming down the stairs alerted us to Nonna’s arrival. With each step came a grunt or groan, followed by some pretty colourful swearing. Italians were known for the beauty of their language, but their swearing was like a song. Nonna could swear about absolutely anything and it would still sound beautiful. She reached the bottom and huffed in Italian.

“Those stairs are not for me! I told your parents to build a one storey.”

Our house had started out as a shack, but a year after my parents immigrated, and in order to adjusting to their new surroundings, they began to build. With the help of cousins, aunts, uncles, and whomever else my father could rope into using a hammer, they created their dream dwelling. For me, it wasn’t just a house; it was my home and sanctuary. For them - after their journey from Italy to a new and strange country - it meant they could start afresh and give their children the future that they themselves were denied in their home country.

Shuffling to the table, she filled up her cup with coffee and sat down. Looking at me, she started to speak. “Okay, today we go to your school. They will see us; we will get those girls. We will tell him to kick them all out. No excuses!” 

Nonna Emanuella was a tough egg to crack. She was similar to Mamma, as she didn’t take any attitude, but she also had a sneaky side. She wore short-sleeved button up dresses that went to her knees and you could see her petticoat underneath. Her fortnightly appointment at her local hairdresser, garnered her every bit of gossip in her own town. And, surprisingly in ours, too. Underneath that bold attitude lurked a cheeky woman who, while being a devout Catholic, would bless you after telling you a dirty joke. She always reasoned that Jesus had a sense of humour, too. But if you wronged her or her family, quite simply—you were stuffed.

In her mind, it was simple. But it was never that easy. A meeting. Us, all in a room, staring stupidly at each other while explaining the incidents, then a slap on the wrist for the girls.

“Nonna, it won’t be all guns a-blazing. It will be a normal meeting and then the principal will decide what to do. Not us.”

Nonna huffed and rolled her eyes. “Finish your breakfast, Beatrice,
sei troppo magra
.”

*              *              *              *              *

Entering the school grounds, I felt apprehensive. Despite the thick layers of my winter uniform, a chill weaved along my spine. The moments seemed to speed up and before long, we were in the office in a face-off against Stacey, Kristen, Brit, and their parents who had been called in. It was bizarre that with one early-morning phone call, my mother threatening charges of assault was able to summon all the parties. We sat in a dinky office with dark painted walls, cramped so closely, that our chairs were touching. I sat between my mother and grandmother, pulling my sleeves over my wrists and grinding the harsh fabric of my itchy school jumper along my curled knuckles. I knew I was not in the wrong, but I couldn’t help but feel as if I were about to be in trouble. As much as Stacey deserved to have this conversation, I felt no sense of victory. I just wanted to feel liberated from her control.

              Listening to the droning voice of Mr Rogers, our restorative and disciplinarian leader, I struggled to maintain focus. He despised unnecessary drama, his policy was to apologise and the issue would be resolved. I watched as my mother recounted the incidents that I had described and the time in which they had taken place. In a sense, it felt like she was talking about someone else. It wasn’t until she began mentioning the cut on my wrist that I came back into the present moment.

“Not only has my daughter experienced numerous incidents, but now—” Mamma glared, “—she has this injury caused by a compass! My daughter should feel safe.”

I glanced up towards Stacey, Kristen, and Brit, expecting some sort of apology, but only Stacey was looking at me, her eyes black pools of emptiness. We both sat staring at each other and I wondered how we even had reached this point. What was so interesting about pursuing me? My thoughts were interrupted when Mr Rogers began initiating a resolution between Stacey and me.