Zac and Mia (18 page)

Mum finds me asleep over my laptop in the morning, my fingers still at the keyboard.

‘Mia.’

‘Why didn’t he tell me?’

‘Come on, Mia. Come wash your face.’

I stay in the bathroom as Mum phones the farm. I hear pieces of conversation but I can’t make sense of it.

‘Bec says we’re welcome to visit,’ she explains to me, after. ‘But she doesn’t want us to … waste our time.’

‘What does Zac want?’

Mum shakes her head, not understanding. ‘Bec says he doesn’t talk.’

‘At all?’

‘He goes to school, but at home … no. Not about the relapse. Do you want to go, Mia?’

‘I can’t just show up.’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Mum, he doesn’t
want
me there.’

‘Don’t guess what’s inside his head, Mia. Think what’s in your own.’ She holds my shoulders still. ‘What do you want to do?’

Me? It’s a no-brainer. My whole body feels the pull of him.

Mum rings her work.

‘Sorry Donna, something’s come up … No, Mia’s fine. She’s well.’ Mum smiles, and I see her relief in being able to say that. ‘She’s good. Her hair’s at her shoulders now. No, it’s something else. I’ll need a few days, okay?’

She cancels her date with the roses man—Ross, his name is—fielding the same, lightning-quick questions. ‘No, she’s well. My daughter’s well.’

I don’t understand why people I’ve never met are jumping to these conclusions. What fears has my mum been sharing with them that she hasn’t shared with me?

I follow her into the garage, where she tops up the car’s water and oil, and checks the spare tyre. She’s never seemed afraid. Not to me. Irritated, yes. Pushy and controlling, definitely. But I never imagined she was scared of losing me.

And I was so keen on being lost.

She grabs a suitcase. We chuck some clothes in, then raid the cupboards for water bottles and snacks.
Into the boot of the car she throws towels and blankets. She’s efficient at escape—much better than I was.

She pulls up the roller door then starts the car.

‘Mia?’

I can’t move.

‘Mia, jump in.’

Zac doesn’t want me there. He just wants to drop out and I can’t blame him. If it was me, I’d want to bolt to the Gold Coast and go out with a bang: parties, drugs, strangers in hotel rooms. Fuck the world and all its bad luck. Fuck doctors and needles and pain. Fuck Google and all its statistics because they don’t mean a thing when it’s
your
life they’re talking about.

‘Are you coming?’

‘We can’t fix him, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘We can’t just turn up and fix him.’

‘Then we just turn up. Here.’

She passes me an old map book. It gives me something to concentrate on as I navigate the best way through our suburb and the next, zigzagging our way to the turn-off for the Albany Highway. Here, the car starts to struggle as the road climbs up and away. The city shrinks in the rear-view mirror.

‘I don’t want to go.’

‘I know.’

I put the book away. We won’t be turning off this road for another four hours.

‘So it’s back? His leukaemia?’

Mum nods.

‘When’s he coming up to hospital?’ It’s selfish of me, but if Zac came to Perth for treatment, I could visit him whenever I wanted, couldn’t I?

Mum keeps her eyes on the road. ‘I’m not sure he is.’

The highway dips and curves at speed. Suburbs segue into bushland; bushland turns to paddocks so green it looks like carpet’s been laid out for the lambs. Near and far, canola fields form bright yellow squares. The world looks honey-sweet out here, the trees pale and gentle.

But every now and then I notice thin shadows cast by birds and I know there’s so much yet to be afraid of.

Near a town, we slow from 110 to 90 to 60. We pass a few houses with stands selling fruit, then a real estate agency and takeaway chicken shop. The place feels familiar, though it’s not until we pull into the service station that I remember. This is where I told the guy I was a shark victim. Where Zac and I bought Chiko Rolls and ate them in the sun.

Mum fills up the petrol tank.

‘Do you know what a Chiko Roll is?’ I ask her.

‘Of course. I used to work here.’

‘Here?’

I look around. There’s nothing but the service station and its four bowsers. Next door is a brick factory and, across the road, an orchard.

‘It wasn’t self-serve then. We had to fill the cars for them.’

‘Since when did you work at a service station?’

‘Since my parents owned it.’

‘This?’

‘I grew up here. Our house was around the back.’

‘Why didn’t you ever tell me that?’

‘I did.’

Even if she had, I wouldn’t have remembered. History and geography were always my least favourite topics.

The fuel pump chugs and Mum stares at the columns as they
tick-tick-tick
. I wonder how many times she’s leaned against cars, watching the numbers flick over.

‘This is where I met your father.’

I push myself off the car to examine the bowser in all its dirty, smelly significance.
This
is the starting point of my life? At bowser number two, unleaded?

‘I said I
met
him here,’ Mum clarifies. ‘You were conceived about twenty k’s that way. Weeks later. By a river.’

‘Gross.’

‘You asked.’

‘No, I didn’t. Who was he?’

‘I’ve told you.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘Chris. A salesman from Perth. I put twenty dollars in his Magna. His window was down and he was playing Silverchair. He caught me singing along as I
cleaned his windscreen. He even gave me a dollar tip.’

‘What colour was the car?’

‘Red.’

‘Was he tall?’

‘Why does that matter?’

‘Cos I’m taller than you. Was he?’

‘Not overly. No, not really.’

‘Did he ask for your number?’

‘We didn’t have mobiles, Mia. He came back the next week to fill up, over there.’ Mum points to bowser number three. ‘He was playing Powderfinger then.’

‘And then?’

‘He kept coming back.’

‘You liked him?’

Mum releases the trigger and the ticking stops. She hangs up the nozzle, screws on the petrol cap, and blinks slowly at the bowser as if it’s him, eighteen years ago.

‘I thought he would be my ticket out of here.’

‘Was he?’

‘You were, Mia.’

We leave the servo and coast through the main street of town. We pass a burger place, a supermarket, butcher, newsagent and park. There’s a sign for a school and a hospital. There are rows of houses behind the highway. It’s a community, I guess, but not one I’d want to live in.

I try to imagine Mum as a schoolgirl laughing with
friends in the park, telling them about the man in the Magna who’s so much more sophisticated than the local boys. I picture her in a short uniform, drinking Coke through a straw, enjoying the word
sophisticated
.

On each corner I see ghosts of her. Mum drives slowly, as if she sees them too.

She slows the car even more, then parks in front of a bakery. I follow her lead up the pavement and through plastic strips that create a kind of door. The place stinks of yeast.

‘It’s changed.’ Mum frowns, disappointed. ‘There used to be long trays of jam doughnuts there.’ The doughnuts on the shelves are small and iced with sprinkles. I wouldn’t mind one, but Mum orders us something else.

‘We used to sit at a table in the corner and eat bee stings every day after school.’

‘And you weren’t a fatty?’

‘Bonnie was like a stick and Clare was … voluptuous … in all the right places.’

I carry the bee stings and iced coffees to a table, then push crumbs off the plastic tablecloth.

‘Don’t you want to get going?’

I shake my head—there’s no rush. Whatever time we arrive at Zac’s house, the outcome will be the same. If I’m honest, I don’t want to go at all.

Mum tears the bag open. ‘They’re not the same.’

‘What about you? What were you like?’

‘I was … normal.’

‘Normal, my arse,’ I laugh, as Shay’s words come
back to me. ‘Did you like school?’

‘It beat working at the servo.’

‘Favourite subject?’

‘Biology.’

‘Weird. What did you wear to your formal?’ For some reason I imagine Mum in blue velvet, a huge flower in her hair.

‘I didn’t go, Mia. I left to have you.’

So there was no blue velvet dress, just a pregnant teenager in a car with her parents. The three of them headed to Perth, where no one would know Mum’s shame. The three of them would start again. The four of us.

‘What happened to the Magna man?’

‘Mia, I’ve told you this.’

‘No, you haven’t. Tell me now.’

She’s prodding the bee sting with a fork. She doesn’t take her eyes off it. ‘He said he’d take me away with him, but he didn’t. He never came back.’

I imagine a ghost of Mum still at the service station. Waiting. Growing fat with her secret. Heartbroken and helpless. Watching the road. Falling apart.

‘Where were Bonnie and Clare?’

‘They didn’t know. I didn’t tell them, even when I left.’

‘Why not?’

‘I was humiliated.’

‘Because of me?’

‘Because I’d talked up this fantasy life with this fantasy man, and it never happened.’

I see my mum as this: an accumulation of bee stings and Cokes, memorised song lyrics and dreams of a better life, somewhere far away. I see her as a teenager who just wants to be loved, who, like me, would rather hide than let people see who she really is: imperfect and ashamed. Not winning, losing. Afraid. Running.

Why do we run?

‘Don’t you miss your friends?’

‘It’s ancient history. I should’ve got a hedgehog.’

‘Do you regret having me?’

‘No, Mia. I told you that already.’

If she did, I wouldn’t know. From the time she forced me to get braces in primary school, I’ve blocked out most of what she told me.
It’s so you don’t have crooked teeth like mine!
Six months of arguing, and I lost. I’ve been fighting her instructions since.
Iron your clothes. Do your homework. Pull your shoulders back. Stay in school. Don’t see that boy
.

I blocked it all out. And then:
Amputate the leg. Save my girl
.

I didn’t know she was saying she loved me.

‘Tell me again.’

A paper bag with two hedgehogs vibrates on the dashboard. The town is long behind us when Mum swears suddenly.

‘Did I pay for the fuel?’

I think back to the servo: Mum leaning on the car; Mum talking to the bowser.

I laugh. ‘No.’

‘Shit.’

She bites her lip and looks at me, but doesn’t turn the car around. ‘We can always stop on the way home …’

We both know it won’t happen. Neither of us wants to go back.

A quick memory makes me suck in air.

‘What?’

‘The Chiko Roll,’ I say. ‘I was the one who dared Zac to eat it. That could’ve made him sick.’

‘No, Mia.’

‘He had a whole list of things he couldn’t eat. We didn’t know what was
in
it. He shouldn’t have …’

Mum puts a hand on my thigh. ‘Mia, the Chiko Roll didn’t made him sick.’

My tears splash the back of her hand. ‘But what if it did?’

‘It didn’t.’

‘What if it was me?’

‘It wasn’t.’

‘He’s my friend,’ I say. My best friend.

‘Then don’t let him go.’

Sheep glance in our direction, then bow their heads to nip again at grass. Dusk dilutes the sky. Mum turns off the engine.

T
HE
G
OOD
O
LIVE
! O
LIVE
O
IL AND
P
ETTING
F
ARM
. An arrow points the way to the entrance. After that, another will point to the store, the sheep and the alpacas. Then there’ll be the sign that says
No Entry
—
Residence
.
And beyond, a house. Inside, a bedroom with orange curtains.

But I’m not going anywhere. I’m dead-tired. My limbs wouldn’t move, even if I wanted them to.

‘Mia.’

‘Go without me.’

I wish I could be on a bus, leaving this behind. Or a plane, up and away, above all this, where life is simple.

Mum turns on the radio.
Shhh
, it says, as it searches for a frequency.
Shhh
. The song it settles on is quiet and acoustic, the kind Bec would hum to as she painted. The kind that makes me cry, regardless of the words.

I’m not brave enough. What good am I to Zac if I lose it over a stupid song?

Mum rubs my back again. She cries too. She’s not brave enough either.

The last of the daylight dissipates. In the grainy shadows, I see a guy letting himself into a pen. He drops feed at his feet where goats crowd him.

He’s older than Zac, I think, with fairer hair. Evan? I’d only met him once.

He pushes away a goat and wipes at tears with the back of his sleeve.
Oh god
, I think,
he’s not brave enough either
.

Bec’s the one who greets us, her blonde hair longer than before. Some of it’s clutched in a baby’s fist. She kisses me on a cheek and tells me I look good.

‘This is Stu,’ she says, waving one of the baby’s chubby arms. I shake his hand. He has Zac’s eyes, though they’re more blue than grey.

‘He’s cute.’

‘I did make a cute one, hey?’

She takes Mum through to the spare room, where they put the suitcase.

‘Do you want to hold him?’

I hear Mum fuss over the baby, the way she’s supposed to. She asks how old he is, how long he is, how he sleeps, what he does with his hands. She jigs him as they walk to Stu’s room.

I stay in the lounge room: it’s the wood fire that mesmerises me. It whips and licks, devouring everything in its reach. It pushes against the glass, angry at being contained.

From the baby’s room, Bec lowers her voice, but not enough. ‘The first time, he was strong … the second time, even stronger …’ Bec’s whispers aren’t meant for me. ‘But this time … he’s given up.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mum doesn’t know the way sickness wraps around you. How it’ll crush you if you let it.

‘He’s broken.’

If they could, these flames would smash the glass and lash across the floorboards, eating up the furniture and the walls and me.

‘You must be Mia.’

The voice startles me. I stand up but can’t see the man. Flares are bright in my eyes.

‘So you’re the one who caused all that pain—’

‘What?’ I shake my head, trying to clear my vision.

‘Bec still complains about that leg wax. She says it was worse than childbirth. You did a good job on her eyes, though.’

I see the shape of Anton, but can’t make out his face.

‘Did I go overboard with the fire?’

‘Maybe.’

‘They’re putting the bub to sleep. You want a Soda Stream?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Tea?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

‘How long are you staying?’

I blink, willing the flares to shrink behind my eyelids.

‘I don’t know … I don’t think I am.’

‘It’s good you’ve come,’ he says, but I shake my head again, not believing him. ‘Bec’s glad you’re here. And Wendy.’ He leans against the wall. His hair is blonde, I notice. His skin is tanned. He has a kind face. ‘You
are
Mia, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘The real Mia? The one Zac named the baby alpaca after?’

I check him for sincerity and he nods—there’s no reason for him to lie.

I close my eyes again, wood cracking in my skull, stars detonating in my eyes.

In the main house, Zac’s mum hugs me quickly and ushers us through the hallway where family photos smile down at us from angles. She admires my hair and introduces herself to Mum. ‘I’m Wendy.’

We stand awkwardly near the table that’s been
set for five. I add up numbers in my head and Wendy catches me. ‘He won’t be joining us.’

She takes us through to the kitchen, saying that the men will be back soon. The benchtop is a mess of boards and knives.

‘You haven’t eaten, have you?’ She looks at the clock.

‘No.’

‘I know it’s late but … I got caught up packing boxes. Evan’s feeding and Greg’s been at the dam, I think. They’ll be back soon.’ She checks the time again. ‘Do you like lamb?’

The kettle screams and Wendy lunges for it.

Mum helps Wendy with the tea.
English Breakfast or Earl Grey? Milk?
I don’t care. Wendy digs through cupboards for matching saucers.

Outside the kitchen window, Bec’s standing in the dark, hanging nappies on the clothesline. I can see Evan by the hayshed, with a torch and a bucket. Further out, I notice headlights dipping beside a fence-line, heading this way. They’re not a family, they’re fragments. Wendy rattles a teacup beside me.

‘Tea? You must be tired, after the drive.’

Soon the dining room will be crowded with food and small talk and noise, and everyone will avoid the Zac-sized hole that’s opened up between them.

‘Here you are, Mia. Sugar?’

But I’m sick of pretending. A Zac-sized hole can’t be filled with anything but Zac.

The hallway is long and quiet. It leads to four
bedrooms. The doors are closed. I pass one, two. I tread the soft carpet. I feel the pull of him. Three. The world drops away behind me.

I press my palm against the end door. A door is all that’s between us.
Zac?
I can’t summon a single word.

Knock
.

It’s all I can do. I tilt into his door, where sadness is a spell sealing him inside.

Knock
.

I think he knows it’s me. I lean an ear closer, in case there’s a
tap
.

I don’t know how it must feel for your body to turn against you again and again. To spend months fighting death, to win then lose, win then lose, then have to put the armour back on. To calculate the odds. Recalculate.
Forget the maths
, I want to tell him.

‘Zac,’ I say.

‘Shhh.’

His voice is closer than I expected.

‘Zac?’

‘I’m writing you a postcard.’

‘From where?’

‘Boston.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘It’s snowing.’

‘Yeah?’ I slide to a crouch so I’m closer to the voice. ‘What else?’

‘Did you know the Old Hancock Tower flashes red when a Red Sox game has been rained out?’

‘I didn’t know that.’ I don’t care if he’s plagiarising
Wikipedia. Is his make-believe such a bad thing? ‘Seen any celebrities?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Can I read it?’

‘When it’s done.’

‘I’ll wait,’ I say. And I do, leaning into the door that separates his world from this one. I picture him in Boston, getting lost in the city with his family. Tracking down warm restaurants. He’s making snow angels with Bec. He’s running away from Evan’s snow missiles, laughing and dodging like a half-forward flank is supposed to.

Then I’m being lifted in a man’s arms and carried down the hallway, through a doorway and outside to Bec’s house. When did it get so cold?

Then I’m in Bec’s spare room again, being eased onto the soft bed. Mum’s above me. So are Wendy, Bec and Anton.

‘Are you hungry?’ Mum asks.

‘No.’

Mum rolls up my jeans and unclips the prosthetic from me. Her fingers worry at the clasp. Evan lingers near the door, watching.

Mum tells me it’s okay. That I should go back to sleep.

‘Sorry,’ I say to Wendy. ‘He’s in Boston.’

I’m not the answer they were hoping for.