A Weekend with Oscar Read online

  “No problem.”

  She moves a little away from me, towards the fence, and I amble onto the nature strip.

  The phone call ends. She turns to me and says, “I’m really sorry, but I have to go.”

  At lunchtime the following day, there’s no sign of Zara. I hang out with Dan. His jokes are half-hearted and he isn’t even laughing at mine. I hate seeing him miserable.

  “Maybe you should talk to your mum about swapping classes. Tell her you don’t like the pressure.”

  Dan lets out a snort. “Ha! As if she’d care!”

  Mr Larch, our English teacher and year level coordinator, passes us as we head out of the building towards the oval. “A word, Jamie,” he says.

  Dan waits while I go to find out what Mr Larch wants, though I’ve already got a fair idea.

  “Have you gone to see Mr Patterson yet?”

  If I could place bets on Mr Larch’s predictability, I would make a fortune.

  I shake my head. “I’m okay,” I say.

  “Nevertheless,” he says, “the death of a parent is traumatic, and it’s the school’s job to provide support.”

  I know he means well, but he can’t make me speak to the counsellor. And I don’t see the point. It’s not as if Mr Patterson can bring Dad back.

  Look, Mr Larch, I want to say, your focus is wrong. You should be looking at Dan. Why don’t you tell him to go see the counsellor? He’s the one who’s stressed.

  I’m tempted to say all this out loud, but Dan, who is a forgiving sort of guy, would never forgive me if I did.

  “I’ll think about it,” I lie.

  “I really hope so,” says Mr Larch.

  When I get back to Dan, he’s staring, unseeing, into the distance. Just as I think I’ll be spending the rest of the lunchbreak trying to get him to crack a smile, he perks up and starts talking about stand-up.

  “Last time I performed, I said I was Vietnamese. And this kid stands up and says, ‘Were you in the Vietnam War?’ I mean, seriously? How old do I look?”

  I let out a chuckle. “That’s funny,” I say. “You should use it in your next routine.”

  We’re heading back to class when I spot Zara in the distance. “See you later, Dan.” I run to catch up with her.

  “Zara?”

  She turns and her face lights up.

  My heart gives a flip and my facial muscles seem to have a mind of their own. I feel like I’m grinning weirdly. “When will you have time to go over the maths?”

  We reschedule for Tuesday. “I won’t bail on you this time,” she promises.

  “Good to know.”

  Tuesday afternoon, Zara and I walk down Hampton Street again. Cars zip by, and the occasional bike. We turn off the main road and into a side street. The sound of traffic recedes.

  Zara’s talking books. She’s an eclectic reader, like me.

  “Favourite movie?” I ask her.

  “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.”

  “No way!” I say.

  Zara has a delicate rose-like scent about her and, as we continue talking books and movies, I wonder how anyone can smell so good at the end of a day.

  The thirty-minute walk to Trent Street feels like five. “I live down the other end.”

  “Nice street,” she says.

  Is it? I’m so used to seeing it, I’m not sure I ever really looked.

  The crabapple trees lining the street are bare, but maybe they have a certain appeal. With Zara beside me, everything looks better than usual. I slow down deliberately, wanting her to myself a while longer.

  “Lived here long?” she asks, when we reach my house.

  “All my life.” The single-storey brown-brick house, built in the seventies, is so familiar I don’t usually notice it. Now, I try to see it through Zara’s eyes. Wrestling with my key in the lock, I’m glad I’m showing her where I live.

  The front door opens into a house that hasn’t been renovated since before I was born. Scratched timber floorboards stretch the length of the hallway. The first room on the left is Mum’s bedroom. Then comes Oscar’s bedroom, with my room after that. All the doors on the left are closed. On the right is the living room, with a fireplace we never use and worn tan wall-to-wall carpet, like in the bedrooms. At the back of the house is the kitchen, where Oscar is loudly slurping his almond milk.

  I have a flashback of the day Felicity Taylor came over, after we’d been hanging out at school for a couple of months. When I introduced her to Oscar, he held out his hand and she took a step back, as if she thought Down syndrome might be contagious. A moment later, she gave his hand a half-hearted shake, but she looked so awkward and uncomfortable, and anyway, it was too late by then. She’d already failed the Oscar test.

  I put all my friends through the Oscar test. Anyone who can’t be natural around him doesn’t last long.

  Oscar is super excited to see me. He literally jumps up and down.

  “Zara, meet Oscar. Oscar, meet Zara.”

  Oscar holds out his hand.

  Nan would have been pleased. Oscar is very trusting and affectionate, and he used to hug almost everyone he ever met. It was Nan who taught him to shake hands instead. “Don’t hug strangers,” she told him. “Other people don’t. You shouldn’t either.”

  Oscar adored Nan. He cried for six hours straight when she died.

  Zara clasps his hand in both her own. “It’s great to meet you, Oscar.” There’s no awkwardness at all. She’s aced the Oscar test.

  “Are you Jamie’s girlfriend?” Oscar asks, grinning.

  “What?” asks Zara.

  Oscar repeats the question but I’m not sure Zara has understood it. It can be challenging for people who don’t know Oscar to understand what he says. His tongue is thick and floppy, and the inside of his mouth small, which makes it hard for him to speak.

  “Where’s Mum?” I ask.

  “In her office,” says Oscar.

  “Zara, come meet her.”

  Mum’s “office” – a room that was added to the back of the house by the previous owners – is just off the kitchen.

  The door is open and Mum is at her desk by the window, writing notes.

  “Mum, this is Zara. She’s new to the school and new to Melbourne.”

  “I hope you like it here,” says Mum, standing to greet her.

  “Thanks.” Zara takes in the two-seater couch, the oval-shaped table and the two comfortable armchairs. “I love this room.” She looks at the quotes, mantras and affirmations on the walls:

  Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken. Oscar Wilde

  Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself. George Bernard Shaw

  If it doesn’t challenge you, it won’t change you. Fred DeVito

  And my personal favourite: Be fearless in the pursuit of what sets your soul on fire. Though in my case, I’m yet to figure out just what that is.

  “Mum’s a life coach,” I say.

  I’m not a hundred per cent sure what a life coach does, but I’ve heard her talking to clients when she thinks I’m not home. She says things like, This is a judgement-free zone, and If it feels light, then it’s right. She’s also a great listener. Her clients adore her.

  “What’s the difference between a life coach and a counsellor or a therapist?” Zara asks.

  “Well,” says Mum, “we don’t do too much delving into the past. We identify the beliefs that are holding our clients back and try to replace them with other beliefs that help them achieve their goals.”

  We follow Mum back into the kitchen. “Carrot cake? I made it this morning.”

  Zara, Oscar and I wolf down cake and juice.

  Zara looks around the kitchen walls, which are decorated with Oscar’s drawings and some old swimming certificates of mine, stuck on with Blu Tack. Her eyes linger on a picture of our family – one with Dad in it – that Oscar drew about a year ago.

  “Did you do that?” she asks him.

  Oscar nods.


  “I love it,” she says.

  Oscar grins. “I love it too.”

  A moment later, Oscar starts talking again, but he’s incomprehensible.

  “Finish what’s in your mouth and try again,” I interrupt him.

  He swallows too quickly and starts coughing, drinks some juice and starts again: “I have swimming on Monday, basketball on Tuesday – that’s today – dance on Wednesday, drumming on Thursday, speech therapy on Friday.” He ticks the activities off on his fingers, but gets confused and runs out of fingers.

  The doorbell rings and Mum goes to open the door. “Hi, Georgia. Hi, Barney.”

  “Oscar,” she calls, her voice falsely cheerful, “Barney and his mum are here. It’s time for basketball.”

  Oscar won’t budge until he’s finished giving Zara the rundown on his daily routine. “Cooking and swimming on Saturday and soccer on Sunday.”

  “Sounds like you do a lot.” Zara must have got the gist of what he’s been saying, even if she hasn’t understood every word.

  “I love having plans. It’s twelve days till my birthday,” he adds, and heads for the door.

  “Bye, Oscar,” I say.

  “Bye, Oscar,” says Zara. “It was great to meet you.”

  I’m alone with Zara. My heart speeds up; I can feel it beating.

  We move to the dining room table and open our textbooks. I show her exactly what she’s missed since the start of the year.

  “It’s only numbers,” she says. “And if you think about it, it usually makes sense.”

  After a while, we close our books and put them away.

  “Let me know if you need more help.” I give her my number and she enters the digits into her phone. A moment later, my phone beeps and her message comes through: Thank you.

  I’m stoked when I see it. “You’re welcome,” I say, and add her to my contacts list, ridiculously pleased to have her number. “I’ll walk you home, so you don’t get lost.”

  “I never get lost. I use GPS.” She’s already tapping her address into her phone. “Although . . .”

  “What?”

  “I’d love you to walk me home. If you’ve got time.”

  I’ve got a maths test tomorrow, from which Zara is exempt, an English essay to write and a mountain of homework piled up on my desk.

  “Great,” I say.

  Once again, we walk in sync. Zara still looks as fresh as she did in the morning, her hair as silky smooth as if it had just been brushed.

  “You know,” she says, as we head towards Hampton Street, “I’m glad you told me about your dad the other day.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Most people pretend that everything’s perfect, that their lives are fine. But you didn’t do that. You were real.” She kicks a stone on the footpath.

  “I don’t usually talk about him,” I admit.

  “Why not?”

  It’s hard to explain. “When he died, my Facebook page was flooded with ‘Likes’ and frowns. I was going through the worst experience of my life and people responded with emoticons.”

  “I guess they meant well,” Zara says.

  “Yeah, but . . . Anyway, I deactivated my account. All my accounts. Snapchat, Instagram. People think it’s weird that I’m not on social media.”

  “It is a bit,” Zara agrees. “But there’s no law that says you have to be. I think it makes you an individual.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “But don’t you feel . . . disconnected?” she asks.

  “I guess it didn’t feel like real connection.”

  “I know what you mean.” Zara tosses her hair off her face. I have a sudden urge to reach out and touch it.

  “At school,” I continue, oddly compelled to confide in her, “everyone kept their distance. Except Dan – he was the one person who was always around. For the first three weeks after my dad died, Dan came over every evening and stayed till I was tired enough to fall asleep. He never missed a single day, even though he got blasted by his mum for ignoring his schoolwork.”

  Zara nods. “Sounds like he’s a really good friend.”

  “The best,” I say.

  “Do you guys talk about everything?” Zara asks.

  “Except for my dad.”

  Zara raises a quizzical eyebrow.

  “You’re the first person I’ve mentioned him to. You’re . . . easy to talk to.”

  “So are you.”

  The main road is busy. We stop at a crossing and wait for the walk sign. It flashes green and we cross the road. A few minutes later, we turn a corner.

  “This is my street.”

  Almond Crescent. The houses here are in good condition, with neat, well-kept gardens. Zara’s house is red brick, with windowsills painted a dark charcoal.

  We pause at the gate. I don’t want to leave, but I can’t think of an excuse to stay.

  I’m about to say goodbye when Zara says, “Come in and meet my family.”

  I follow her up a shrub-lined path and into the house.

  “Mum, I’m home.”

  “How was school?” Her mother’s voice comes from another room.

  “Good,” says Zara, as her mum appears. “This is Jamie.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jamie. I’m Katie.” Katie’s eyes are tired but friendly.

  “Where’s Hayley?” Zara asks.

  “In the den.”

  The “den” is a comfortable room with a large couch covered in cushions, an armchair, a beanbag, and a large TV. A girl is in there, walking about on tiptoes, apparently lost in a world of her own. She’s a blonder, paler version of Zara, and appears to be a few years younger.

  “Hayley?” says Zara.

  Hayley gives a fleeting glance in Zara’s direction, then turns back to the window.

  “Hayley, this is Jamie.”

  Hayley turns her head and looks straight past me, as if I’m not there. She starts swaying from side to side, her eyes unfocused.

  “Hi,” I say. She doesn’t answer.

  “How was your day?” Zara asks.

  Hayley doesn’t reply. And I realise that Zara and I are both members of the same club – the Siblings-of-People-with-Disabilities Club. We have an automatic affinity.

  In the kitchen, Zara pours me a glass of water. “Hayley’s on the spectrum,” she says. “Sometimes she responds, sometimes she doesn’t.”

  “I don’t know much about autism,” I admit, as I picture the girl I just met – thin, ethereal, not quite of this world.

  Zara looks at me thoughtfully, as if she’s weighing up how much to explain. “I think the world is confusing and . . . overwhelming for people with autism,” she says at last. “They don’t understand other people or the world around them and they have a kind of sensory overload. There’s all this stuff coming at them. They can’t filter it out, but they can’t make sense of it. And they’re emotionally isolated.

  “At least nowadays,” she continues, “there’s an awareness of what autism is. If you were severely autistic, say, a hundred years ago, people would think you were crazy or stupid, or both, and you’d be locked up in an institution for your entire life.”

  “That happened to people with Down syndrome too. It was just assumed they could never learn, which became a self-fulfilling prophecy – they weren’t taught anything, so could never achieve anything. No one cared about them. They had miserable lives.”

  Zara nods. “I guess we should be grateful times have changed.”

  Zara’s mum enters the kitchen carrying a laundry basket filled with clean clothes. I catch a whiff of floral-scented detergent.

  “I hope you’re not too hungry,” she says to Zara. “Dinner’s not ready yet.” She puts down the laundry basket and starts chopping vegetables, while Zara folds laundry.

  Through the window, I see the darkening sky. It’s almost five-thirty. Mum and Oscar will be back soon. I should be getting home.

  Zara walks out with me. We’re standing on the footpath and I’m about to
leave when I notice something I’d missed before. A narrow stretch of garden runs the length of Zara’s house, and in the back corner of the property is a shed.

  “What is it?” asks Zara.

  “The shed. It’s the one Dad wanted.” I’m clawing at the wound again, making it a little bigger, but still I keep talking. “He’d planned to order it when he got back from Hong Kong.” I realise I’m blinking back tears, and laugh to cover my embarrassment. “I guess every man wants a shed.”

  “Not my dad,” says Zara. “That shed was his present to me when we moved here.”

  “To you?”

  “For my artwork,” she says shyly.

  “You brought it here from Adelaide?”

  Zara nods. “Along with all our other stuff. We brought almost everything we owned. It was cheaper than buying it again. And better for Hayley. She needs familiar things around her.”

  “Can I see your work?”

  “I’ll show you some of it,” she says.

  I follow her along the side of the house.

  Zara opens the door. Inside, multiple canvases face the walls or are stacked up, one behind the other. She’d need a whole gallery to display them. Not a single painting is immediately visible.

  “It looks like you’re hiding them,” I say.

  “Maybe I am.” She’s standing beside me, just inside the shed door, arms wrapped around herself – and I sense it’s not only because of the cold. “I’m not sure they’re any good.”

  “I won’t be able to tell. I don’t know anything about art.”

  She laughs, then spreads a few of the paintings out and turns them to face me. “There,” she says, somewhat self-consciously. “That’s me on display.”

  “Is it?”

  “Well, yeah. All art reflects the artist’s own, internal world.”

  I look at one canvas after another. Some of her paintings are individual pieces and others are part of a series. There’s a locked-door series – in each painting, the door is placed in a different position, but always a single person is blocked off by it, unable to reach the group of people on the other side.

  I’m completely bowled over.

  “Wow!” is all I manage to say. But she deserves more than a single word. I try again. “I always thought there were only two kinds of art – the old-fashioned kind that requires skill, and that was useful at a time that predated cameras –”