Rebellious Daughters (21 page)

NERVOUS BREAKDOWNS

AMRA PAJALIC

I entered the bedroom where my mum was still lying in bed. I had poured myself cereal, then found there was no milk.

‘Oh,' Mum said when I told her. She sat up with her hair tousled, blinking sleep out of her green eyes. Izet, my new stepfather, had left to run errands an hour ago and we were alone. ‘Take some money from my purse and go buy it.'

I bit back words of frustration. I missed Nana. During the four years that I had lived with my grandparents in Bosnia, in the mornings she would wake me
and I'd find breakfast waiting for me on the table: hot tea, sliced homemade bread, jar of also homemade jam and a stick of butter. In the two weeks I'd been living with Mum again I'd learnt that I had to fend for myself. Mum suffered from what she called
Slom Živaca
, which translated to ‘nervous breakdowns' in English, and all my childhood she had been in and out of hospital. Living with my grandparents had been a welcome reprieve from the chaos of Mum's illness, even though at the same time I'd been racked with a feeling of homesickness and grief at being separated from her.

As I rode my bicycle to the milk bar, I enjoyed the sensation of flying. My mood lightened. I looked with curiosity at the yellow and brown brick houses I passed. These were the same streets I'd walked as a young child, but now as a 12-year-old it was as if I was seeing them with the eyes of a stranger. This landscape was so different from Bosanska Gradiška, the town where my grandparents lived. By comparison Melbourne's western suburbs were monochrome and cold. There was concrete everywhere: in grey footpaths and asphalt roads, and most of the yards were lost to concrete driveways.

On my way back home, the plastic bag with the milk bottle hanging on my handlebar kept swinging back and forth, until its handle tore. The bottle hit the asphalt with a bang, the milk seeping into the black bitumen. I braked abruptly and stared at the mess on the road. I
didn't know what to do. I had no money to buy another bottle, as I'd taken only a two-dollar coin from my mother's purse. I began pedaling forward home.

Fear gripped me the closer I got. I didn't know what Mum would do. If this had happened while I was living in Bosnia, my grandfather would have used a stick to correct my clumsiness. His favourite method of punishment was beating my fingertips while I held them together. As for my grandmother, she would have chased me away from home, throwing rocks at my retreating form. Even though I thought she purposely missed with her rock throwing, no one could be that bad, but I'd never stuck around to test my theory.

When I arrived home, I knocked on the door, as I wanted the option of a quick get away if Mum got agro. I had never before feared my mother, but I had become infected with fear after living in a Communist regime where people who were different from the so-called ‘norm' were viewed as dangerous and often locked in institutions. While we lived in Bosnia Mum, too, was incarcerated in hospital whenever she demonstrated the tiniest indication of her illness.

‘Why are you knocking?' Mum asked when she opened the door.

‘The milk bottle smashed and it went everywhere on the road,' I was almost in tears.

Mum gave a deep sigh, her lips narrowing in
displeasure. ‘Here,' she said, handing me a coin.

‘Thanks,' I said.

I walked back to my bike, worrying my lip. Maybe living with Mum was going to be better than living with my grandparents.

Six months later I was hanging out on the corner of my street with other neighbourhood kids. Even though it was seven o'clock at night, it was summer, the sun was still out and it was broad daylight. I was with Zehra, the daughter of Mum's best friend. Zehra had recently moved into a shared house not far from where we lived.

The squeal of a burnout rent the air, the thick vapour produced by the friction of tyres on asphalt surrounding the car like a blanket of smoke. Zehra stood on the curb wearing denim cut-offs and a stretchy spaghetti top that was poured onto her hourglass figure, her nipples beaded from the cold.

The red Holden Commodore passed by and Zehra stared dead ahead at the driver who was speeding past us. I saw the moment when she caught his eye, how his head whipped toward her and their stares locked, then he drove past. Another squeal of the tyres and he did a U-turn, before pulling to a stop by us.

The driver was speaking to one of the guys who we were hanging with while staring at Zehra. She kept looking down at the ground, then quickly back up at
him. With each drop of her eyes she did a move, drawing attention to yet another asset of hers: a dip of her shoe in the street curb to show off her naked leg, a scratch of her shoulder which squeezed her unfettered boobs up. By lowering her eyes. she gave the guy a chance to check her out, then met his gaze again.

I was both fascinated and appalled. At 13, I'd just begun developing and my breasts were the size of apricots.

‘I'd better go get ready,' Zehra said and broke away from the group. It was Friday night and she was about to go clubbing. She was five years older than me and her world was full of freedom: she didn't have to deal with parental dramas and decided herself where she lived and with whom, while my life was always dictated by Mum's illness.

Having no interest in hanging around with hoodlums once Zehra was out of the picture, I went back home. Mum was in hospital again and without her my stepfather and I had settled into a loose routine. We lived off frozen pizzas, baked beans and hot dogs. Before Mum married my stepfather, whenever she went to hospital, life as I knew it would stop. I would be taken in by friends of family or foster families, would have to change schools and leave my friends behind, and I would be in limbo because there was no time limit as to how long Mum's hospital stay would last. At least now I got to go to the same school, hang out with my friends, stay in the
same house. Still, I avoided home as much as possible, staying out late on school nights. I found spending time with Izet draining.

Izet was caught up in homesickness. While living in Bosnia he had worked as a baker and had lived with his elderly parents and brother. Now that he had left, the memories of his previous life were coloured by nostalgia, which rendered it as perfect. By contrast Australia was found wanting. According to Izet, there was no proper sense of community here, and he felt an all pervasive sense of violence outside his front door. Indeed, the Western suburbs of Melbourne where we then lived were often described as the crime capital and our suburb, St Albans, had the highest murder rates in Victoria. In his unhappiness, Izet became consumed with talking about leaving this ‘shit country', though he never did anything about it. But even though being in Izet's company made me feel anxious and unsettled, I couldn't ignore the fact that without him in the picture I would once again be at the mercy of strangers to take care of me while Mum was in hospital. Mum's previous beaus had been offhand in accepting her offspring, while Izet cared for me as if I was his biological daughter, even though I kept him at a distance because I never trusted that he would stick around.

The next morning I woke up with my head throbbing, and my back and pelvis muscles aching. I lolled on the
couch trying to watch
Rage
, feeling uncomfortable. During a commercial break I went to the toilet and saw blood on my underwear. I had only found out about periods when I started high school, from my girlfriends. My grandparents had kept me sheltered while I lived with them. Even though I knew what a period was, I'd somehow never realised that I would be afflicted by it.

I stuffed toilet paper into my underwear, then yanked the phone into my bedroom, stretching the cord to its limit, and closed the door. The phone rang out once. ‘Oh, God, please be home,' I begged as I dialed again.

‘What?' Zehra's voice finally came on. She sounded half asleep and belligerent.

‘It's Amra,' I whispered.

‘Who?'

I repeated my name again, louder.

‘Why are you calling so early?' Zehra moaned.

‘I got my period,' I whispered, aware of my stepfather in the living room.

‘So? Hang on, is this your first period?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I don't know what to do. Mum is in hospital and I can't talk to Izet.'

‘Didn't your mum buy you pads?'

‘No,' my tears gathered. ‘I put in some toilet paper, but I don't know how long it's going to work.'

‘Okay, I'm coming over.'

I hung up the phone and waited at the front of
the house. A few minutes later I saw the red Holden Commodore pull up and Zehra came out.

‘Here, take these,' she said, handing me a plastic bag with pads. ‘This should last you a couple of days and if you need any more you can call me. Make sure you change them frequently.'

Burn Out Guy from the night before beeped the horn.

‘Gotta go. I'll come by tomorrow. We'll talk then.' Zehra waved as she got into the car.

Burn Out Guy did another screeching burnout as they disappeared back around the corner. I returned home, put a pad between my legs and went to bed. The throbbing in my back had increased and now cramping in my abdomen had also started. When I woke, Mum was home for a weekend stay, eating breakfast in the kitchen. The medication was flattening her mood and I could see she was lethargic, struggling to maintain energy.

‘You're being lazy today,' she snapped as soon as she noticed me. ‘The least you can do is wash the dishes.' She pointed at the full sink.

I avoided housework at the best of times and this didn't change while Mum was in hospital. Izet picked up the slack, but still there would be a bit of housework waiting for Mum whenever she was home for the weekend.

But now at least I had a genuine reason for my slackness. I felt heavy and defeated by the force of what was
happening to my body, and worn down by pain. ‘I got my period,' I whispered.

‘Oh.' Mum went silent for a moment. ‘Do you need pads?'

‘No, I got some from Zehra,' I enjoyed seeing the consternation on her face. She had failed to prepare me for this rite of passage. ‘I need you to buy more.'

‘I'll tell Izet to add it to his list,' Mum said. My stepfather was the one that did the grocery shopping.

‘What? No, I don't want him to buy them for me.'

Mum didn't say anything.

‘Just give me money and I'll do it myself,' I said.

She handed me a note.

‘Hey, put that back,
mala
,' my stepdad said, using his nickname for me – little one – as I snatched the remote and changed the channel.

‘No,' I said. ‘
Booker
is about to start.'

At 15, I was boy-crazy and had spent the afternoon in feverish anticipation for my favourite TV show. It was a spin off from
21 Jump Street
, an incredibly unrealistic show that featured young gorgeous looking police officers going undercover in high schools.
Booker
had Richard Grieco, the object of my latest crush. I had his posters on my wall with lipstick marks all over them and had even sent a letter to his fan club, receiving a signed photo for my efforts.

‘I was watching that doco,' Izet said.

I ignored him, keeping my back to him. We had only one television and it was a constant source of battles between Izet and me with Mum hardly getting a look in.

Izet took back the remote control and switched the channel.

‘Put it back,' I yelled. ‘It's about to start!'

‘Amra,‘ Mum said. ‘It's Izet's turn to watch.'

‘But it's
Booker
…'

‘You can't always get to watch what you want,' Mum said, calmly. ‘You have to share. You watched
Quantum Leap
yesterday and Izet didn't watch his show.'

‘You always take his side!' I shouted. ‘You know I love this TV show and I watch it every week. He shouldn't be watching this crap anyway,' I said, pointing at the documentary on the screen.

Usually at this point my stepdad would crumble and tell Mum to let it go, but not this time. Maybe he'd had enough. I had been hogging the TV. I had my roster of television shows I was completely incapable of giving up.

‘I told you it's his turn.' Mum changed the channel.

I got up and switched the channel again using the buttons below the screen, then sat back down. The theme song
Hot in the City
sung by Billy Idol was playing and I felt the familiar wave of excitement at seeing my crush on the big screen. I swayed to the beat, literally rubbing my hands.

The channel changed again.

‘What the fuck did you do that for!' I yelled. ‘I fucking told you I was watching that!' I continued ranting, uttering all sorts of profanity, while Izet adopted his usual turtle pose, hunching into himself as if he was trying to protect himself my words. He was a mild-mannered man who always, anxiously, retreated in the face of my adolescent rage.

‘Amra, enough,' Mum said. ‘Go to your room.'

‘No!' I stood in front of the television so Izet couldn't watch. This battle, for me, was more than a battle over the television. I was really fighting for Mum's attention.

I had never forgiven her marrying Izet and leaving me in Bosnia while they came to Australia as newlyweds. Mum and I had gone to Bosnia for a visit that stretched out to a four-year-stay. The medication in Bosnia didn't manage to control Mum's symptoms and her parents kept hospitalizing her every six months. She couldn't bear this any longer and after marrying Izet her plan had been that we all return to Australia together, but I refused. Fearing the chaos that I'd lived through when Mum was a single parent, unsure things would be any different even after her marriage, I had chosen to stay with my grandparents. Even though Mum returned to Bosnia a year later for me and we finally returned to Australia together, I wanted her to prove to me that I was her number one. Her siding with Izet made me
think she loved him more. The rejection fueled my rage.