A Weekend with Oscar Read online

  “Eat it anyway,” I say.

  “I want Mum,” he says.

  So do I.

  “She was supposed to be back.”

  “Yes, Oscar, she was. She’s been delayed. These things happen.”

  “I’ve got swimming today.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Who will take me?”

  “Maybe you’ll miss it.”

  “Natalie can take me,” Oscar suggests.

  “No, I don’t think she can.”

  “Why not?”

  Oscar’s questions are driving me mad.

  “How about watching ‘Phineas and Ferb’?” I suggest, breaking Mum’s No-TV-On-Weeknights rule.

  Oscar nods eagerly, a willing colluder in breaking the rules.

  In the morning, I wait for Oscar’s bus to pick him up, which means I’m late again. When I finally do get to class, the first thing I notice is that once again, Dan’s not there. Neither is Zara.

  Mrs Malone is going over the more difficult problems from yesterday’s test, which almost the entire class got wrong. How does the accelerated class – a group selected for their giftedness – do so badly? Then I realise – the practice test is of Mrs Malone’s devising. She’s deliberately made it twice as hard as the real one will be.

  After another sleepless night and a difficult morning with Oscar, there’s no way I can concentrate.

  A bird lands on the windowsill of the classroom and I track its progress as it picks its way along the edge, taps on the windowpane and then flies off.

  Mrs Malone shoots me a look of frustration.

  Where is Zara? Where is Dan?

  The lesson is almost over now.

  I text Dan: Where r u? R u ok?

  Then I text Zara.

  I think of the people I care about most. Mum. Oscar. Zara. Dan.

  I’ve only known Zara a couple of weeks and already she’s made my list of four! Of those four, three are not where they should be.

  At least I know where Oscar is. Or think I do. He’s at New Haven Special School. Or should be by now. I saw him get on the bus this morning. I made sure he got on it. I saw him wave as it drove away.

  The phone in my pocket vibrates.

  A surge of hope. Mum!

  It’s not Mum, it’s Zara: Late today. C u in the caf @ lunchtime?

  I text back: Yes

  I don’t hear from Dan.

  I sit through biology and picture Ms McKenzie’s words inside speech balloons beside her head, then drifting, like soap bubbles, out of the window. I don’t really notice the passing of time.

  At lunchtime, I grab my sandwich and head straight to the cafeteria. Zara is already there, looking even more exhausted than I feel. She has dark rings around her eyes and her hair is messy. It makes me want to wrap my arms around her, keep her close.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Hayley thought 3 am was the perfect time to start rearranging the furniture in our bedroom.”

  I laugh despite myself. “Seriously? She can’t read the time?”

  “She can read it, but she doesn’t care about it.” Zara sighs. “I did try to convince her that the middle of the night wasn’t the best time to move the desks, the chairs, her bed, but she completely ignored me. It was like talking to a wall.”

  We share our lunches. I give Zara half my tuna sandwich and she passes half her salad to me. She entertains me with stories of her sister’s antics. “Once,” she says, “we went to a musical and during the interval, Hayley went into the men’s toilets instead of the women’s. Well, anyone could make a mistake like that. But once she was in there, she still didn’t realise. And guess who had to go in after her and bring her back out?”

  We laugh harder than I’ve laughed in ages and almost choke on our food.

  Zara wipes tears of laughter from her eyes. “Actually, it’s not that funny,” she says, the laughter gone. “Sometimes I catch myself wanting to shout, Just be normal! Why can’t you be like everyone else?”

  “But you don’t,” I say.

  “I may not do it, but I feel it. I’m a hypocrite, Jamie. I’m critical of others who can’t accept difference, but in my heart, I can be just as guilty.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I say. “You feel what you feel.”

  “Do you ever get frustrated with Oscar?”

  “Of course. I’m not proud of it,” I add.

  “You see? You’re just as hard on yourself as I am.”

  I reach for her hands across the table. She rests them in mine and I feel a buzz from head to toe. For a long moment, we gaze into each other’s eyes.

  The bell rings and lunchtime is over.

  How did forty-five minutes pass so quickly?

  Zara stands up. “See you tomorrow, Jamie. Oh, and say hi to your mum from me. It must be good to have her back.” Then she rushes off to class, before I have a chance to answer.

  Zara assumed that Mum was back and her certainty rubs off on me. In English, I manage to write a coherent essay, and when I leave school early again to make sure I’m home in time for Oscar, I’ve almost convinced myself I’ll find Mum there. She’ll be in the kitchen cooking dinner, or in her office organising her notes after her last client has left for the day.

  A piece of paper is wedged under the doormat. Another client has left a note.

  Inside the house, I go through the motions of looking for Mum, but I already know what it takes less than twenty seconds to confirm. She’s not in her bedroom, not in my room, not in Oscar’s. She isn’t here.

  I enter her office, find her appointment book and send a message to the clients who were scheduled to come today – the same message I sent to yesterday’s client. There are two clients booked in for tomorrow and three for the day after, but I won’t cancel Mum’s appointments in advance. I’m still trying to convince myself that any minute, she’ll show up.

  On the wall of Mum’s office, the command to Be fearless in the pursuit of what sets your soul on fire seems to mock me. You can’t always pursue the thing that sets your soul on fire. Sometimes, you’re thrown into a situation and you just have to deal with it. Even though he’s my brother and I love him, looking after Oscar is not what sets my soul on fire. But right now, I don’t have a choice.

  It’s been two days now since Mum should have returned, and yes, I know there was a storm in Perth, but why hasn’t she been in touch?

  I think, fleetingly, of calling someone. But I can’t take the risk. And what would I say? My mother is missing? I don’t want to believe that. It might be tempting fate.

  I go outside to wait for Oscar. He climbs down the steps of the bus and grins when he sees me.

  I give him a hug. “Hi, bro.”

  “Hi, Jamie.” He tears through the house. “Where’s Mum?”

  “Still in Perth.”

  “Because of the storm,” he says. It’s no longer a question. “The storm” has now become the norm.

  “I’ve got basketball,” he says.

  “Yeah, Oscar. I know.” Even though Oscar knows his schedule by heart, it’s written in block letters and stuck on the fridge. It’s hard to miss.

  “Barney’s mum will pick me up.”

  “Will she?”

  “She always does on Tuesdays.”

  “And brings you home again?”

  “No, Mum does.”

  “Well, Barney’s mum might not be able to take you both ways. We’ll ask when she comes. You’d better get ready.”

  I help him find his basketball clothes. His team wear bright orange vests and each player has a number – Oscar’s is seven. Once he is dressed, I shepherd him back to the kitchen.

  The fruitcake I defrosted yesterday is still moist and there’s enough of it to last till tomorrow. I sit Oscar down at the table and give him a slice. “What time does Barney’s mum usually come?” I ask him.

  Oscar mumbles something I can’t decipher, his mouth full of cake.

  “I can’t understand you. Don
’t talk while there’s still food in your mouth.”

  Oscar chews loudly, mouth open and finally swallows. “Ten to five,” he says.

  The bell rings at exactly ten to five. Oscar rushes to open the door. I’m right behind him.

  Barney and his mum, Georgia, are both on the doorstep.

  “All set?” Georgia asks.

  Oscar is nodding.

  “Wait!” I put a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Mum’s not home,” I tell Barney’s mum. “She can’t pick them up today.”

  Georgia frowns. “Really? She didn’t tell me.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. She didn’t tell me either.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “Can . . . can you bring them home? Otherwise Oscar can’t go.”

  A flash of annoyance crosses her face. Then she quickly tries to hide it. “Sure. Yes. Okay. Come on, boys. Get in the car.”

  I watch Oscar climb in, then I go back inside. The house seems so empty. I should be feeling relieved – for the next couple of hours, someone else is in charge of Oscar – but the emptiness of the house has seeped into me.

  I wander aimlessly from room to room and end up in my parents’ bedroom. I open the wardrobe that used to be Dad’s. His shirts, pants and jackets are still hanging there – I guess Mum can’t bring herself to get rid of his clothes. I take a deep breath and inhale the old, familiar odour of Dad’s cologne as well as the slightly spicy smell of Dad himself.

  How can his scent be here when Dad is not? I tell myself not to wallow. I can’t give in to self-pity. I have a job to do.

  Back in the kitchen, I take out a container of bean soup – why didn’t I do that this morning? – and stand it in the sink. I pour boiling water over it, take off the lid and slide the contents into a pot.

  It occurs to me that Oscar might tell Georgia that Mum is in Perth because of the storm. What will Georgia think if he does? What will she do?

  I find myself breathing fast and force myself to calm down. There’s no reason to panic. Oscar says a lot of things. Everyone who knows him knows his information isn’t reliable.

  Should I tell her the truth? Perhaps she could help.

  But I don’t know her all that well.

  When Georgia drops Oscar home, she waits in the car and watches till he’s safely inside. I raise my hand, give her a wave, draw him into the house and shut the door.

  Oscar doesn’t want the bean soup.

  “Then you’ll be hungry,” I say. “There’s nothing else.”

  He bangs his spoon on the table like a spoilt three-year-old. “I want chicken and potatoes.”

  So do I.

  “I don’t want this.”

  “Fine, I’ll eat it.” I take Oscar’s bowl of soup and dig my spoon in.

  “Noooooo!” His wail is heart-wrenching.

  I give him back the bowl of soup and this time he eats it.

  After dinner, Oscar grabs his mandala colouring book. I let him colour for a while, then it’s time for his shower. He doesn’t want to have one. I’m tempted to let him skip it – it would make life easier – but Mum would be horrified, so I insist.

  When I finally get him standing under the stream of warm water almost an hour later, I’m wondering if it was worth the battle.

  I doubt there was any point in coming to class today. Mum is officially three days late. Where the hell is she? Should I tell someone she’s missing?

  But who can I trust?

  I glance at the whiteboard. Mrs Malone catches my eye. “I’ll go over this one more time,” she says. A moment later I see her watching me, her gaze travelling down to my feet.

  I’m tapping my foot and can’t seem to stop.

  Suddenly, I need air. I get up and, without saying a word to Mrs Malone, leave the room. I head out to the oval and try to call Mum. A recorded message tells me that the number I’ve dialled is not connected.

  The day is grey and overcast. There’s a chill in the air, but as I walk mindlessly around the oval, I barely notice the cold.

  Dad always said, “No news is good news” and “Bad news travels fast”, but those clichés aren’t helping.

  Even if her own phone is disconnected, why hasn’t Mum called from Aunt Selena’s? Or from somebody else’s phone?

  When first period is over, I go to English, because it might force me to focus on something other than what might have gone wrong. But that doesn’t help either. I stare out the window, my body rigid. And I realise that what I am feeling is terror.

  It’s been building inside me ever since Mum’s flight was delayed – or maybe it’s only surfacing now and was already there, buried deep, since the fatal heart attack that ended with Dad in a coffin.

  I never used to be fearful. But Dad’s death changed everything. It stripped away all certainty, all security, because if Dad could die, Dad who could always cope with anything, Dad who could make the world okay, then anything could happen, and no one is safe.

  Life is no longer something I can take for granted. Not mine. Not Mum’s. Definitely not Oscar’s.

  No news is good news. No news is good news. I repeat it in my head, like a mantra. If I say it often enough, I might just believe it. There must be a simple, logical reason for Mum’s absence. Nothing bad or sinister.

  I’m on my way to the library, maths textbooks tucked under one arm. Since I have to look after Oscar after school, there’s no way I’ll get any work done at home. I’ll have to study at lunchtimes.

  I’m cramming the last of my soggy hummus and tomato sandwich into my mouth when my phone beeps. Mum! Hope flutters briefly in my chest, but then I see it’s a text from Dan.

  Maybe it’s time I told him the truth. I text him back. Call me or come over later.

  I spend the rest of lunchtime in the library, re-reading the same page of maths, frustrated that it’s not sinking in. Studying has been my default setting since Dad’s death, an effective distraction. But it’s no longer working.

  I tell myself to get a grip. Breaking down is not an option. Oscar is dependent on me and I can’t let him down.

  There’s only one other person who might be able to help, and even if she can’t, I want to be with her.

  I close my books and leave the overheated library in search of Zara.

  I find her in the cafeteria, staring out the window, looking pensive. She jumps up when she sees me.

  “Had lunch yet?” she asks.

  “I’m not really hungry. Can we talk?”

  “Sure.” She glances up at the clock. We don’t have much time.

  “Not here,” I say.

  We walk quickly towards the oval. Once I’m certain no one is within earshot, I ask her to promise not to tell anyone what I’m about to reveal, and she swears she won’t.

  I speak, fast and matter-of-factly, as if I’m talking about somebody else’s life, somebody else’s problems, though a part of me longs to scoop her into my arms and forget everything else.

  “And you haven’t heard from her at all?” she asks, after I explain that Mum never made it home.

  I shake my head.

  “Jamie, you have to tell someone.”

  The bell rings and we both ignore it.

  “Like who?” I ask.

  “I don’t know – an adult. A teacher, a relative, a friend of your parents . . .”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I tell her about the conversation I had with Mum, the promise I made to look after Oscar, to make sure he’s okay.

  Zara clutches my arm. “That’s exactly why you need to tell someone.”

  “But what will happen to Oscar? I’m not old enough to be his legal guardian. They’ll take him away.”

  Zara shivers. “Then what are you going to do?” she asks.

  I shrug my shoulders. “Look after Oscar until Mum gets home.”

  She doesn’t say, That’s a bad idea or What are you thinking? She’s quiet for a while, processing what I’ve told her.

  “You’re
stubborn, aren’t you?” she says at last.

  “Zara, I promised.”

  “But you’re only sixteen.”

  “And a half,” I say.

  I fall into step beside her and we walk towards the school building. The last of the lunchtime stragglers are heading inside.

  When we reach the lockers, it’s time to part ways. “Zara, you can’t tell anyone,” I remind her.

  “I won’t, but I wish you would,” she says.

  I leave school an hour early to make sure I’m home when Oscar arrives. The letterbox is overflowing and I realise I haven’t once checked the mail. It’s not usually my responsibility.

  Despite the NO JUNK MAIL sign, the letterbox is full of advertising leaflets and a handful of envelopes in various sizes, some addressed to Mrs Helen Anderson, others to Jack Anderson, and still others to Jack and Helen Anderson. It’s been over nine months since Dad died and it’s not as if these companies sending bills and statements haven’t been told. Why does vital information such as whether a person is dead or alive get lost in red tape? It’s awful to see mail with Dad’s name on it, mail he can’t ever open.

  I take the whole lot inside and dump the leaflets in the recycling bin. Yet another client of Mum’s has left a note saying she came for her session. I scrunch it up and toss that too. I don’t know how long it was sitting in the letterbox.

  I look at the envelopes one by one, trying to guess their contents. It’s usually wrong to open someone else’s mail, but what if something needs urgent attention?

  I rip open one of the envelopes. It’s a bill for electricity, not due for another few weeks. I open another. The words PAY NOW grab my attention. They are in ominous red. Other phrases leap out at me too, OVERDUE and REMINDER NOTICE. I go through envelope after envelope. Mostly bills, though some are statements: The amount of $356.40 will be debited from your account.

  What will I do about finances?

  What will I do about food?

  I take the mail into Mum’s office and leave it in an untidy heap on her desk. Maybe she’ll be back before I have to deal with it.

  I go back to the kitchen. This morning, I took a container of lentil soup out of the freezer, but I used the last of the bread for our lunches.