A Weekend with Oscar Page 5

  “That night, he went to the hospital again and my nan came over to look after me. She said, ‘They think there’s something wrong with your baby brother. They think he has Down syndrome.’”

  “I asked what that meant, and she said, ‘It means it will be harder for him to do things that other people take for granted.’”

  “Do you remember what Oscar looked like as a baby?” Zara asks.

  “No, but I’ve seen photos. You couldn’t tell he had DS. Not when he was very young.”

  “Then how did the doctors know he had it?”

  “There were indicators. A blood test confirmed it. My mum once said, what hurt the most was that people acted like it was a tragedy and no one said congratulations. My parents’ best friends told them they could adopt Oscar out. My mum and dad were really upset. They never saw those friends again.”

  Oscar has the ball now. He dribbles it along, gives it a decent kick, then looks up at us to check if we’re watching. I wave both my hands in a crisscross motion above my head. Zara does the same. Oscar grins and turns back to the game.

  “How about Hayley?” I ask. “What was it like when she was born, or diagnosed?”

  Zara stares into the distance, thinking. “I was also three when Hayley was born but I don’t remember it. And it wasn’t until she was a few years old that she was diagnosed. I remember that well. One day we were just an ordinary family. The next, we weren’t. You could see the pitying looks when people found out. Some stayed away, as if bad news was infectious. Maybe they just didn’t know how to act, what to say.

  “Overnight we were part of this whole other community. Hayley was taken out of her local kindergarten and placed in a special school for kids with autism. I think my parents had hoped she’d be able to stay at a regular school.”

  “Yeah, that’s what my parents wanted for Oscar. He started off at Treehouse Kindergarten and went on with the same kids to Treehouse Primary, and it was great because the other kids were friendly. But when he was around nine or ten, he started to struggle and my parents decided he’d be better off at a school for kids with special needs.”

  Zara is nodding. “It must be hard for parents to give kids with disabilities a ‘normal’ life but still meet their needs. Is it hard for you, Jamie? Having a brother with a disability?”

  I shake my head. “I never thought of him as being disabled. He was just my brother and I loved him. It’s only recently that I’ve started to think about what it means and how it might impact his life. What was hard was that he was sick a lot. He used to have excruciating stomach-aches. I’d hear the front door opening at, like, 4 am, and it was Mum taking Oscar to hospital because he was in so much pain.

  “The next day at school, I’d be thinking of Oscar in hospital, praying that he’d be okay. The other kids seemed so superficial. All they talked about was the last footy match they’d seen, or what holidays they were going on next. I couldn’t talk to them about my worries. It was kind of . . . isolating.” I glance at Zara. “I knew I’d be able to talk to you even before I knew about Hayley.”

  Zara briefly touches my hand. “How’s Oscar now? Does he still get terrible stomach-aches?”

  “Not nearly as often.”

  “That’s good,” she says.

  We both look at Oscar. He’s grinning, and he’s got the ball. He passes it to one of his friends, and we watch the last few minutes in silence.

  Game over; we give the players a round of applause.

  The sky is overcast and grey, and it’s just starting to drizzle when our taxi driver drops us off outside McDonald’s.

  Once inside, Zara hands me some cash and goes to look for a table while I stand in line to place the orders. Grilled chicken snack wrap for Zara, and Quarter Pounders minus the cheese for Oscar and me. Not Mum’s idea of good nutrition, but she does let Oscar have burgers and fries for an occasional treat.

  I watch Zara bite into her wrap and admire her skill. Wraps are never a great idea for me – at least half of the filling slides out the ends – but Zara eats neatly. By contrast, Oscar is chewing with his mouth open, his face smeared with sauce. Crumbs pepper his shirt, the table and the floor around him. Some people are staring outright. Others are throwing surreptitious glances in our direction while pretending not to.

  A flush of heat burns my face and I’m instantly ashamed – ashamed of myself for being ashamed of Oscar. I know messy eating never hurt anyone, yet I can’t help wishing he could eat as unobtrusively as everyone else.

  Zara seems oblivious. She clearly couldn’t care less that people are staring. “How’s your burger, Oscar?” she asks him.

  “Good,” he answers, his mouth full of meat and fries.

  A little girl wanders over and stares at Oscar. “He’s got funny eyes.”

  “He’s got beautiful eyes,” Zara says, without missing a beat. “Do you know why he looks a bit different?”

  The little girl shakes her head.

  “It’s because he’s got Down syndrome,” Zara explains.

  The little girl skips away as Zara says, “Sorry, Jamie. I hope I wasn’t overstepping.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “It’s just, that’s the way we handle people who stare at Hayley. My parents always say, if people are ignorant, educate them.”

  “Yep, that’s what my mum says too.”

  “What’s ‘ignorant’?” asks Oscar.

  “It’s when people don’t know things,” I explain.

  We’re standing in the queue, waiting to buy tickets to Jafar’s Journey, when I see him. Three girls huddle behind us, and right behind them, talking to another jerk from school, is Ethan Chandler.

  My heart sinks. I stand behind Oscar, trying to block Chandler’s view.

  A light tap on my arm reminds me Zara’s beside me. “What’s wrong, Jamie? You look like you’re about to throw up.”

  “The douchebag from school is in the queue.”

  Zara glances back. “Don’t let him get to you.”

  The girls behind us decide to abandon the queue and have pancakes instead, leaving Chandler and friend directly behind us.

  “Anderson,” Chandler says, “why aren’t you home cramming for tomorrow’s exam?”

  It’s our turn to buy tickets. Chandler sniggers as I ask for three tickets to Jafar’s Journey, then blocks my path as I try to pass him.

  “Enjoy your G-rated movie,” he calls out after us as we turn around and walk away.

  It’s impossible to get into the cinema without passing the candy bar.

  “Ice cream,” says Oscar.

  He’s lactose intolerant. I can’t let him have it. “It’ll make you sick.”

  “Ice cream,” he says, pointing to the choc-tops. “Ice cream. Ice cream.” With each repetition, he’s getting louder. If I’m not careful, I’ll soon have a full-scale tantrum to deal with.

  “Is he allowed chocolate?” Zara asks me.

  I nod. “As long as it’s non-dairy.”

  Zara quickly buys a block of dairy-free chocolate, breaks off a row and hands it to Oscar. “This is much better than ice cream.”

  He stuffs the dark chocolate into his mouth.

  Inside the cinema, we make our way down the aisle to our seats.

  “I want to sit in the middle,” says Oscar.

  I let him, even though I’d love to sit next to Zara.

  The movie begins and I’m soon engrossed.

  I’m not sure Oscar understands the story, but he watches, entranced. He loves animation.

  Zara and I glance at each other over Oscar’s head and exchange a smile. She turns back to the screen, but I keep sneaking glances at her. She’s absorbed in the movie. She laughs at the funny bits and her eyes well with tears during the sad bits. I love the way she lets herself cry.

  The foyer is almost empty now, only a few stragglers remain.

  “Didn’t you like the movie?” Oscar asks.

  Zara dabs at her eyes and blows her nose. “I loved it,�
� she says. “Hang on a minute.” She moves off to one side, rings her mum and mumbles something into the phone before ending the call. “Mum said to invite you both back for dinner. Come on, she’s expecting you.”

  A taxi, this time booked and paid for by Zara’s mum, drops us off at Zara’s house. Katie hugs Oscar and me as if she’s known us for years. Zara’s dad, Terry – a tall man with thinning hair and a friendly expression – introduces himself with a firm handshake and a smile. In the den, Hayley is sitting in an armchair ignoring everyone. It doesn’t faze Oscar – he’s used to difference.

  “Where’s the cat?” Oscar asks, warily.

  What is he talking about? I didn’t notice a cat the last time I was here. I look around and see the dish of cat food in the corner that Oscar’s got his worried eyes on.

  Katie waves vaguely. “Oh, somewhere around.”

  Oscar paces the room. “I don’t like cats. Where is he?” He’s visibly shaking.

  “He won’t hurt you,” says Zara.

  “Is he in the house, or outside?” Oscar asks.

  “He might be in the garden,” Katie says, “in which case we can shut the cat door and lock him out.”

  “I think he’s inside,” Terry says. “I saw him before.”

  “Are you sure?” Oscar asks.

  “Boris won’t bother you. He’s not very social,” Zara explains. “He usually disappears when people come over.”

  Oscar looks terrified. “You have to find him.”

  I wish I could take away his fear. He won’t relax until he’s certain the cat can’t get near him.

  “I’m leaving,” says Oscar.

  “Sorry,” I apologise to Zara’s parents. “A cat scratched him once. It was years ago, but he’s been scared ever since.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll go find Boris,” Katie says.

  The front door slams. Oscar has already left. Zara and I go out after him. He’s sitting on the low brick fence in front of the house.

  “Katie’s looking for the cat,” I say. “It’s okay, Oscar. You can come back in.”

  He shakes his head.

  After a minute, Katie comes out, holding Boris. “Oscar, come inside. I’ll put Boris outside and shut the cat door so he can’t get back in.”

  “What if we keep the cat inside till dinnertime,” Zara says, “so we can do some painting in the garden? It’s not too freezing. Do you want to paint, Oscar?”

  “Yes,” says Oscar.

  Zara sets up an easel in the garden not far from the shed, with brushes, paints and a jar of water on a table beside it.

  Oscar starts painting straightaway. He doesn’t stop to think, analyse or critique his work. Soon his canvas – a large sheet of butcher’s paper – is a riot of colour, as uninhibited as he is.

  While Oscar’s happily painting away, I follow Zara into the shed. She promised to show me more of her artwork.

  First, she selects the pieces. “They should be viewed in order,” she says, as she follows my gaze to a series that catches my eye. “First to last.” She rearranges the paintings, lines them up against the wall. “This is my glass jar series,” she says.

  The jar is the same in every painting. It’s large and takes up most of the canvas. In the first painting, a fair-haired baby is curled up inside the jar, its eyes closed. The next painting shows a very young child inside the jar, and in the next, the child is slightly bigger. As I move from one canvas to the next, I realise I’m seeing the same girl, growing older. She looks a lot like Hayley, light, ethereal, as if at any moment she might fly away. There are ten paintings in the series. The girl becomes a teenager, a young woman, an older woman and finally, a very old woman with wizened features. And from one canvas to the next, her expression changes – slowly, almost imperceptibly. What starts as a blank look becomes unreadable, then turns to pain and anguish. The look on the old woman’s face in the final painting is tortured and haunting. It’s totally brilliant.

  “Is that Hayley?” I ask.

  “Yes. And no,” Zara replies. “All art is about the artist.”

  “You said something like that last time I was here. I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “A work of art might appear to be about someone or something else, but it’s always about the artist too. All we can express is ourselves and our own reality. And not all communication is deliberate. Sometimes we express things without even meaning to. In life, as well as in art.”

  “Really? How?”

  “Well, body language, for example. Haven’t you ever noticed how a facial expression can contradict what someone says? People aren’t always aware of how much they reveal.”

  I think of Felicity Taylor and how she recoiled on meeting Oscar. “You mean, I might instinctively move away from someone I don’t want to be near?”

  “Exactly. And I think that’s what art is for – to understand more about ourselves. I mean, think about it,” she says. “Have you ever found it difficult to express a feeling?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “And once you found the words to describe it, didn’t that give you clarity?”

  “Yeah. I guess it did.”

  “Sometimes, it’s words that give you clarity. At other times, it’s a picture you paint.”

  “Or a painting you see. Or a book you read. Or a song you hear. You don’t necessarily have to be the creator.”

  “No, that’s the beauty of art,” Zara agrees. “It can connect you to something within yourself. Sometimes, a book, a piece of music, or a painting seems to have been created especially for you.”

  You seem to have been created especially for me.

  “It’s a kind of . . . chemistry,” I say.

  “Right,” says Zara. “No work of art connects with everyone. But if you ‘make it’ as an artist,” I hear the inverted commas in her voice, “it’s because you’ve managed to express something and communicate it to others.”

  “Do you want to make it as an artist?” I ask.

  Zara shrugs. “I’m more interested in art as therapy.” She sounds suddenly shy, as she always does when opening up about something that matters to her. “It can make a real difference to people’s lives.”

  “I love the way you think,” I say. “And I love talking to you.”

  Zara blushes. “I love talking to you too.”

  I pick up her hand, examine the thin fingers and short, no-fuss nails. I rub my thumb across her palm. “This is the most beautiful hand I’ve ever seen.”

  She smiles up at me and my heart races.

  It’s hard to breathe.

  Footsteps approach. I let go of her hand.

  Zara’s mum pokes her head around the door. “Dinner’s ready,” she says. “See you inside.”

  Out in the garden, Oscar has finished his painting and is applying long, bright streaks of green to the brick wall dividing Zara’s house from the neighbours. I gasp when I see it.

  Zara laughs. “Don’t worry,” she says. “It washes off.”

  We look at Oscar’s completed work. It’s colourful and easy to look at.

  “Hey, Oscar,” calls Zara, “I love your painting.”

  Oscar walks towards us, grinning. “You can have it,” he says.

  “Really? Don’t you want it?” Zara asks.

  “I have lots. We do painting at school.”

  “Thank you. I’ll treasure it.” Zara gives him one of her radiant smiles. “Are you ready to go in for dinner?”

  “Yes, I’m hungry,” Oscar says.

  “Wait here with Jamie while I get the cat.”

  A moment later, Zara brings Boris out of the house and we go inside.

  We wash up in the bathroom and come to the table. Hayley is already sitting down between both her parents.

  On the wall above the table is a framed painting – a family portrait, Katie and Terry sitting in the middle of a couch, with Zara and Hayley on either side. At the bottom left-hand corner, the initials ZB are inscribed.

  “ZB?”
I ask.

  “Zara Bennett,” Katie explains.

  I turn to Zara, incredulous. “You did that?”

  “Uh-huh. A couple of years ago.”

  A couple of years ago? She was only fourteen!

  I can see the stylistic similarity to the work in the shed.

  “Zara’s always been great at art,” her dad says proudly.

  Dinner is homemade shepherd’s pie. Neither Oscar nor I have tried that before.

  “Yum,” says Oscar.

  Katie looks chuffed. “Glad you like it.”

  “We’ve never had shepherd’s pie,” I say. “It’s delicious.” And I’m not just being polite.

  “Have some salad.” Katie passes me the bowl.

  Hayley eats quietly, without joining the conversation. Every so often, she puts down her knife and fork, and Zara’s dad gently places them back in her hands. She eats less than half of what’s on her plate, despite several reminders from her parents. Finally, she drops the cutlery onto the floor. She remains at the table. Zara’s already told me they won’t try to move her while Oscar and I are here.

  “Time to go, Oscar,” I say as soon as dinner is over, because I know that it will take a while to get Hayley to bed.

  “I need to go to the toilet,” says Oscar.

  Zara and I wait outside the bathroom door, and I’m thinking of Hayley, sitting silently at the table, dropping her cutlery onto the floor.

  “You said that it’s hard for Hayley to get used to new people.”

  Zara nods. “Yes, that’s true.”

  “But you invited us for dinner. Is that a problem for Hayley?”

  Zara considers the question. “Hayley’s closed off from the rest of the world. That doesn’t mean we have to be too. We try to live as normally as possible, so we let the world in, even if Hayley doesn’t like it, and we try to integrate her into everyday life as much as we can.

  “You’re right though. It is hard for her to get used to people she doesn’t know. But the real problem is when she has new teachers or carers – people who look after her when we’re not around.

  “Having you and Oscar over is no big deal. It’s not like we were going out and leaving her with you. Although,” she adds, “the more she sees you, the more comfortable she’ll be around you.” Zara elbows me playfully in the ribs. “I guess that means you should come more often.”