The Mimosa Tree (9 page)

‘I just had some work to finish,' I say.

‘We were at the library, Mrs Verdi,' says Felicia, leaning across to the passenger seat so she can speak to Mum. ‘We got a bit carried away with studying.' And she follows this with a wink which, thankfully, Mum misses.

Then Mum notices my face. ‘What happened to you?'

‘It's okay. I got a bit sunburnt, that's all.' I think she is going to cry now, but she manages to hold herself together, promises to find me creams, aspirin, laxatives: whatever is in the medicine cabinet. After a few more pats and hugs to make sure I'm really okay, we wave goodbye to Felicia and go inside.

Having missed lunch I am extremely happy to see the snack she has laid out for my return. A selection of cold meats and cheeses, with a crusty loaf of bread, a bowl of olives and a jar of artichoke hearts. I rip off a fat chunk of bread and dip it into the oil from the artichokes. I shove it into my mouth and the oil drips down my hand. I am aware of grunting like a cow as I chew but I don't care and Mum just looks happy, as always, to see me eating. She looks at me from across the table, head resting in her hands, enchanted.

‘All that learning is making you hungry,' she says, cutting
another slice of bread for me. She reaches over and plays with my hair. ‘Did you have a good day?'

‘Uh-huh,' I say, trying not to spit crumbs out of my mouth.

‘I miss not having you at home.'

I smile. I miss being at home too. ‘I can always quit.'

She opens her eyes wide. ‘Don't even think about it! I'd rather miss you then see you wasting your opportunities. You're so lucky. I wish I could have gone to school.'

‘You just say that because you've never been. If you went you'd hate it like the rest of us.'

She gives me her I'm-going-to-smack-you look, but thankfully, doesn't. ‘I went to school, Mira. I
can
read and write. The nuns wanted me to stay, you know. They told my mother I could be a teacher too.'

‘Really? You never told me that before. So why didn't you stay?'

‘There was no money. I had to work. That's how things were in those days. Tell me about your school,' she says, head in hands, face dreamy.

‘What do you want to know?' I say, getting tense.

‘Have you made any friends?'

‘I suppose,' I say, thinking immediately of Harm, but not sure if I can place him in this category yet.

‘Yes,' says Mum. ‘I like her.'

‘Felicia?'

‘She reminds me of you.'

‘What? That's crazy, we're nothing alike!'

‘Of course you are. She is smart like you. She has a good heart.'

‘There's a lot more that's different.'

‘Maybe. But those are the important things. It's what's on the inside that counts, Mira. I'm happy that you have found a good friend. You're a good girl and you deserve it.'

‘That's not what you said yesterday.'

‘Yesterday you were a pain. Today, you are all right,' she says with a smile. ‘I am proud of you.'

God. She's always saying this corny stuff.

‘Why are you rolling your eyes at me?'

‘Because it sounds like you're reading straight from a parenting manual. It sounds stupid.'

‘To you everything is stupid.'

‘Well that's because it is.'

‘Well that means you're stupid then.'

‘No, everything except me is stupid.'

‘And me?'

‘Everything except me and you, okay?'

She pulls me across the table so that my chest drags against the crumbs and oil and she holds me for what feels like forever. All I can think about is eating another artichoke heart but I know better than to interrupt her when she is in the middle of a sentimental moment. When she's finally done adoring me, she pushes me away again, waves her hands as if to dispel the nonsense.

‘Enough. I can't sit around talking all day. I have to make dinner.' I watch her head purposefully into the kitchen.

She hums to herself as she glides from cupboard to sink to stove, pulling things from the fridge and chopping and mixing in a happy kind of dance that I have spent my whole life watching.

‘What are we having?' I shout over to her.

‘Pasta,' she says, and I groan.

Absorbed in her work, she doesn't notice. I take my backpack, head to my room. The curtains have been drawn against the afternoon sun, and my room is cool and dark. I switch on the radio and turn the dial until I find a half-way decent song, which turns out to be ‘In Between Days' by The Cure. Humming to myself, I lie back on my bed, to reflect on my day. Firstly, though it seems like a year ago now, I remember those last few hours with Harm. There are flashes of laughter, of talking, of hand holding, which makes me want to smile. But ultimately, all that really stands out is waking up alone. Next I think about the library with Felicia, and I start to relive the dreadful feeling of falling behind in my studies. I sit up then drag my backpack up on the bed with me; think about what my mum said about lost opportunities and about how she wanted to go to school and couldn't. I think about how proud she looks every time I get out of that damned car, and about how she always has food waiting for me and asks nothing from me except that I just keep going.

I rip open the bag, determined to start taking my studies more seriously, but instead of scrunched up paper, my bag is packed with leaves and twigs. Shocked, I take out a large handful and scatter them across my bedspread. I stare in awe as an upturned beetle kicks out his legs to flip himself over then scurries under a nearby leaf. I reach in again, letting my fingers comb through the leafy debris that has magically made its way into my backpack. Then my fingers find a piece of paper and I pull it out to look at it. It's folded neatly, not like anything I
have ever shoved into my bag. I open it slowly. In large letters, written in smoky black eyeliner, is Harm's name and phone number. Under this, there's a peace symbol.

I just stare at it, smiling stupidly.

I stare and smile all the way to dinnertime.

At the table I accept and eat my bowl of pasta without complaint and delight my mother by going for a second. I am so happy and pleasant that even my father smiles at me and stays at the table so long that he misses the nightly news. That night, we all go to bed with big fat smiles on our faces. In my room I lie awake in the dark, radio stirring with some fantastic new music. I roll over onto my front, pull the pillow down to my chest and hug it close. I notice my nuclear survival map poking out from under the bed, and remember that I had planned to finish plotting the major rivers. Reaching down, I slide it away, out of sight, and for the first time in years, instead of dreading tomorrow, I start to look forward to it.

Today is Mum's birthday party, the one that Via demanded, and the one that she is now enjoying as Mum slaves in the kitchen preparing all of Via's favourite dishes. At least Mum is not alone this year; Siena is in the kitchen helping her. I am here too, but mainly to escape the madness of the party happening outside. Mum is clanging dishes and talking to herself about what needs to be done, and Siena is following her from job to job doing her best to interpret and help.

‘I should use the long dish for the ravioli. The one with the blue flowers,' says Mum, and before Siena can help Mum has her head deep in the cupboard looking for it. ‘The water is hot enough now, we can put the ravioli in one at a time so they don't stick,' she says, and again, before Siena has a chance to intervene, Mum is already standing by the stove, plate of ravioli in hand and dropping them into the pot.

‘The sauce is bubbling,' I say and Siena barely has time to turn around before Mum is at the pot and stirring to stop the sauce from sticking.

‘Sofia,' says Siena slapping her arms down by her sides. ‘There must be something I can help you with.'

‘All under control,' she says smiling then suddenly she remembers something. ‘Oh my God! I forgot about the lobster!' And before Siena can find an oven mitt, Mum is squatting before the oven door. There's a balloon of steam, then the smell of baking cheese. She puts her unprotected hand into the hot oven, starts tugging at the orange tails to shuffle pieces into better positions.

‘Isn't that hot?' says Siena.

‘Oh, I'm used to it,' says Mum, smiling over her shoulder.

‘You must have hands of steel.'

She shakes her head sadly. ‘Soft now. When I was working in the restaurant, I could pick up trays straight from the oven and carry them to the other side of the room.'

‘She's not exaggerating,' I say. ‘I've seen it.'

Mum grunts and rubs at her back.

‘You are working too hard,' says Siena. ‘You need to rest.'

‘Plenty of time to rest after the party.'

‘All this work. It's too much for you.'

‘This?'
laughs Mum gesturing to her collection of boiling pots, half chopped herbs and stacks of dirty dishes. ‘At the restaurant I served two hundred people a night. That was before, you know...'

But she leaves off the rest of the sentence because she doesn't like to use the ‘c' word.

‘It may as well be two hundred people for lunch the way they're eating out there,' I say pointing through the window.

‘Have they started on each other yet?' says Siena getting up
on her toes to look out as well.

‘I think they still have enough food, but we better hurry.'

‘Cooked?' says Mum, walking towards us, holding up some steaming ravioli on a wooden spoon.

She offers it to Siena first who backs away from it like it might bite. Siena's thin arms cross in front of her like a pair of tangled coathangers. Even after weeks of living with Via she does not seem to have acquired any bulk, and in fact, is possibly even skinnier.

‘You try it, Mira,' says Siena deflecting the spoon to me. ‘You know better how everyone likes it. I'm a bit out of touch with the family's tastes.'

‘Careful, it's hot,' says Mum, as she drops it into my mouth and I jump up and down, flap my hands in front of my face and pant.

‘Well?' she says ignoring my protests of pain.

‘Another two minutes,' and though this is just what I always say, for some reason I am always right.

Mum nods, satisfied with my response, and she gets the colander ready to drain the pasta. Outside, things have gotten rowdy. There's some noisy giggling and clunking of glasses before I hear my father and Via break out into some stupid Italian song. I look out the window and laugh as I see Via twisting and snaking around the table. Dad is leaning on the back of his chair with one hand, holding a beer can high in the other and swaying with the song. Uncle Zito sits quietly watching, his face all grin and moustache, while his son Franco has his thumbs in his ears, burning cigarette held as far from his curly hair as his fingers can manage. He grimaces each time
he is forced to remove a thumb so he can take another drag. My cousin Rosa and her husband Gino are busy trying to wipe cheesy pizza sauce from their children's faces. But the kids are more interested in trying to catch Via as she shuffles about the table in her crazy dance. Mum carries the steaming pot of ravioli over to the sink where I am standing and pours it into the colander. Hot steam fogs up the window, but just before the scene disappears I catch Via waving at me and wiggling her hips for my entertainment.

‘She loves you like her own daughter,' says Mum wiping a clear viewing spot into the fogged window.

‘Then she doesn't love Rosa very much.'

‘Don't be stupid. Via loves you. She's only tough on the ones she loves, you understand? I don't know what we would have done without her,' says Mum, as she blows a kiss out to her sister. ‘She helped me every day during my...' and she trails off again as I realise that ‘treatment' is another word she is not fond of.

‘I'm sorry,' says Siena and we both turn around to see her standing behind us with tears in her eyes.

‘What for?' says Mum.

‘I should have been here too.'

Mum takes her sister's face firmly between her two palms. ‘You had your own problems,' she says emphasising each word with a gentle shake of Siena's head.

Siena places her hands over my mother's and tries to smile, though it's hard to do this while her cheeks are being held together. It ends up looking like a sloppy pout.

‘All that matters is that we are together now, and that the
thing,
you know, is behind us,' says Mum, then gives both cheeks a final squeeze before returning to stir the bubbling sauce on the stove.

Outside, the table erupts in another tune and Mum starts humming along. Siena smiles to herself as she wipes down counters. She makes some discreet swipes at her leaking eyes and Mum and I pretend not to notice.

Then the phone rings.

The shock sends Mum's wooden spoon flying to the ceiling. She looks from me to the phone like we are opponents in a tennis rally.

‘The phone!'

‘Yes, Mum.'

‘But who could it be?'

And actually, it is a little surprising because almost everyone that knows our telephone number is either in this kitchen, or sitting outside under the grapevine.

‘Don't worry,' I say when Siena looks confused. ‘She always does this. I'll get it.'

‘Hello?' I say, turning my back so I don't have to watch the panic on my mother's face.

‘Have you called him yet?' says Felicia so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ears.

‘Keep the volume down! This is a phone not a trumpet.'

‘Well excuse me. You've become very haughty since you got a boyfriend.'

‘I don't have a...' but I stop just in time. Releasing this particular word into this room could have repercussions I am not ready for. ‘Hang on,' I say, sensing my mother's nervous
vibration beside me. I muffle the phone into my shirt.

‘It's all right. No one is dead. It's just Felicia.'

‘It's lunch time,' she says, looking over at the wall clock that reads quarter to twelve. ‘Who calls at
lunch
time?'

‘Her family eats at one.'

She flicks her hand like she's trying to cool something down. ‘So
sophisticated,
' she says then goes back to the kitchen. ‘Don't be long.
We
still eat at midday.'

Mum and Siena pretend to go back to their cooking, but I am not fooled by their cunning ability to look disinterested while still listening to every word. I wedge the phone between my cheek and shoulder and start scribbling on the phone book as I try to keep my voice low.

‘I can't just call,' I whisper, keeping an eye on Mum and Siena. ‘What would I say?'

‘If you don't call he'll think you don't like him.'

‘I don't want to look eager.'

‘Mira, he gave you his number. I assume this means he wants you to call him. So call him.'

With my red pen, I begin to draw a peace symbol on the back of my hand. I trace the circle over and over until it's nice and thick. In the kitchen Mum and Siena are pretending to be absorbed in dropping handfuls of parmesan over the ravioli.

I am not fooled.

I turn my back on them and push the mouthpiece closer to my lips. ‘Can we discuss this later?' I say.

‘You talk tough, but you're really a chicken, Mira.'

‘LUNCH IS READY,' shouts Mum, even though I am about two metres away.

I tuck the pen into my shirt pocket. ‘I have to go. It's lunchtime you know.'

‘You're eating already? We usually have our lunch at one.'

‘Fascinating.'

‘You're not going to call him, are you?'

‘Don't think so.'

‘Call him today. Promise.'

‘I gotta go.'

‘Chicken.'

‘Lobster, actually. Bye.'

I turn to see Mum standing close beside me, bowl in hands. She looks like she is waiting for me to say something.

‘How is Felicia?' she says after it becomes obvious I am not going to start this conversation.

‘Fine.'

‘What did she want?'

‘Just talking.'

‘Talking about what?'

‘School.'

She shifts the bowl to her hips. Waits a bit more.

‘Everything okay?' she says.

‘Yep.'

‘Just talking, then?'

‘Just talking, Mum. That's all.'

She smiles, pats me on the shoulder.

‘Take the bread,' she says.

‘Sure.'

And I follow her outside.

Lunch is served to a chorus of hungry oo-ing and ahh-ing, as though some other family was responsible for eating the mounds of pizza, olives and breadsticks that have disappeared from the table. Mum dishes out plates of richly sauced ravioli and Siena is at her side adding parmesan to each plate before passing it to Via who decides who gets served. The first plate goes to her husband. Then her daughter, son and grandchildren are fed before the rest of us are offered anything. I take my place at the end of the table with Sera and Marco; I help them tackle ravioli which refuse to stick to forks and wipe down their red smeared faces with the edges of the tablecloth. As everyone quietens down to eat, Via takes the opportunity to fire some shots at me.

‘Couldn't you wear something
nice,
' she says loudly then looks around to make sure everyone has heard her. I am wearing a black shirt, black ripped jeans and my Doc Martens. ‘It is your mother's birthday for God's sake. Rosa had her dress especially made for today, didn't you darling?' She leans over and rubs the material between her fingers as though this illustrates some important quality. ‘It's lovely don't you think, Sofia?'

‘Oh yes. Beautiful colour on you, Rosa.'

‘It makes her skin
glow,
' agrees Via. ‘What did you say this colour was called, darling?'

‘White?' says Rosa.

Via laughs, flaps her wrist like Rosa is just kidding her around. ‘No, the
other
name. What did the lady at the store call it?'

‘Ivory Satin?'

‘That's it,' says Via, sitting back proudly and sliding a cigarette from her bosom.
‘Hi-vor-ee Sigh-ton.'
There is a murmur of approval around the table.

‘I don't wear dresses,' I say resting my foot on my knee and leaning back into my chair. ‘No offence, Rosa. You look good.'

‘Thank you, Mira.' We've never spoken about it, but I have always sensed Rosa dislikes her mother's comparisons of us as much as I do.

‘I like your boots, Mira,' says my cousin Franco, pitching in with some help of his own.

‘You're very nice, Franco, but it doesn't help your cousin when you lie to her,' Via says, moving quickly to rectify any misunderstanding I may have. ‘You look like one of those children who can't
walk.
'

‘I think they look like those boots you used to wear, Via,' says Siena, leaning across and dropping more parmesan into her plate.

Via crosses her arms and tries to look blank but there's a bit of a twitch in her nose.

Siena then says to me. ‘When Via was about your age, she found a pair of our grandmother's boots. Funny thing is, they were a bit like the ones you're wearing, with laces all the way up. Do you remember, Sofia?'

‘Oh yes! Remember Via? Mamma hated them. She said you looked like an
orphan.
'

‘A gypsy,' corrects Siena.

‘You walked around the piazza every day to show them off. The whole
village
remembers those boots and how Mamma cried.'

‘The laces broke and she wouldn't get you new ones,' says Siena.

‘Then you found some wool and made laces,' adds Mum.

‘There was a hole in the bottom, and your socks would get wet.' Siena and Mum laugh loudly about this.

Via looks at me, ignoring the continuing chatter of her sisters who are almost falling over as they remember more details and stories about those boots and Via. ‘That was a long time ago,' she says quietly.

‘They were good days,' says Mum, wiping tears from her eyes.

They sit quietly, each remembering their own things. The rest of us wait for them to finish.

‘This is delicious, Sofia,' says Siena, breaking the silence and we all murmur our agreement.

Mum looks down shyly. She's red but proud. ‘Not as good as Mamma's,' she says prompting an eruption of protests, and the mood lifts as everyone once again focuses on the day's job of eating and drinking.

As Mum and Via clear plates and get ready for the next course, Siena comes and sits beside me.