A Weekend with Oscar Page 8

  Zara said she’d come over. I send her a text, asking if she can buy us bread on the way. I add a row of coloured hearts. I don’t want her to think I’m taking her for granted.

  I take a second look in the pantry, even though I don’t remember seeing much there. On the top shelf is a large, unopened jar of peanut butter. I’ll keep that for emergencies, so it’s best if Oscar doesn’t know about it. He might refuse to eat anything else.

  I also find a large tin of tuna and a packet of spaghetti. That should do.

  I’m out on the nature strip waiting for Oscar’s bus when Dan arrives. I’m shivering a little. This winter seems to be colder than usual.

  I fill Dan in on what’s been happening, but not before swearing him to secrecy.

  Dan doesn’t get why it’s a secret.

  Would Mum want me to keep it a secret? Mum always talks about the importance of communication – which is ironic considering there hasn’t been much of that between us lately. She isn’t a fan of secrets.

  I once asked her why her clients came to her.

  “Different reasons,” she said. “Sometimes they just need to unburden themselves. You’re only as sick as your secrets,” she added.

  But it’s not black and white. There’s a price to keeping secrets, but sometimes there’s an even heavier price to telling the truth.

  Dan presses the issue. “Maybe my mum could help,” he says. “Why don’t you want an adult to know? What are you afraid of?”

  “Being dumped with some foster family. Oscar being taken away.” I imagine police turning up on the doorstep and social workers storming our house. “What if he gets sent somewhere really far away?”

  “He might be better off with an adult looking after him.”

  “Better off with strangers than a brother who loves him?” I shake my head. “At least with me I know he’s safe.” For now, says a voice in my head. But for how much longer? “And I made a promise to my mum. And I want to be with him.”

  When Oscar gets off the bus, he’s chuffed to see not one, but two people waiting for him. He says hi to Dan and runs inside.

  Dan and I follow.

  Oscar is shovelling the last of the leftover fruitcake into his mouth when Zara arrives. He gives her a messy grin and jumps up to greet her. She hands me the bread and gives him a hug – not the quick, embarrassed kind he gets from people who think it’s expected, but a proper one – wrapping her arms around him.

  “I’ve got dance today,” Oscar tells her.

  “That’s great,” she says.

  “Oscar,” I ask, “is there anyone in your dance class who lives nearby?”

  “Warren doesn’t do dancing any more,” Oscar says.

  Oscar loves his dance class. I hate having to tell him he won’t be able to go. I try to break it to him gently. “You know Mum can’t take you.”

  “Mum is in Perth,” he says to Zara. “Because of the storm.”

  Zara hesitates before answering. “Yes, I know.”

  Then inspiration strikes. “Oscar, we can have your dance class here.”

  Oscar looks puzzled. “Who will be the teacher?”

  I glance from Zara to Dan, shoot Zara a questioning look. She nods, okay. “Zara will.”

  We move into the living room. I find Oscar’s favourite music on my phone and connect it to bluetooth. He waits for instructions.

  “We start by moving to the music any way we like,” says Zara.

  Soon all four of us are dancing. Zara has closed her eyes and is gently swaying. Then the beat changes and she starts to shake her limbs and torso. I too let the music bubble up inside me, let my body respond. My head clears, filled only with music and movement. I twist and turn. My moves get faster and faster till I’m jumping and leaping. It feels like freedom.

  I grab hold of Zara’s hand, hold it high up over her head and twirl her around. Zara takes hold of Oscar’s hand and spins him towards her. Dan puts his hands on my shoulders and starts a chain. Then the four of us form a circle, dancing alone, separate but connected by an invisible thread.

  Oscar has a great sense of rhythm. He throws himself into it, body and soul.

  I catch a glimpse of my brother, my best friend and the girl who already means so much to me as they all whirl past me. I see the joy on their faces and know that it reflects my own.

  It occurs to me that happiness can be easy. It can grab you when you least expect it. But the moment I become aware of it, the spell is broken.

  “I have to cook the spaghetti,” I say. “You three keep dancing.”

  “Actually, I’d better leave.” Dan heads for the door.

  Zara keeps dancing. I wink at her and she smiles back. Thank you, I mouth. She mouths back, You’re welcome.

  In the kitchen, I open the packet of spaghetti. How does Mum cook it? I find the instructions and follow them carefully, starting by boiling a large pot of water.

  There’s a recipe for sauce on the packet too, but I don’t have the ingredients. Instead, I use two tired-looking tomatoes, their skins shrivelled. When the spaghetti is what I judge to be “al dente”, I drain it and divide it into three bowls, then top it with tinned tuna and chopped tomato.

  When Oscar and Zara have tired of dancing, dinner is waiting. Oscar sits at the table.

  “Not for me,” says Zara. “My mum will be expecting me to eat at home.” She comes closer and whispers, “Until your mum gets back, don’t give away food.”

  “It’s four days till my birthday.” Oscar holds up four fingers. “Will you come to my party?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” Zara checks her watch. “I’d better go before it gets dark.”

  “Wait!” I take some coins from Mum’s emergency jar. “How much was the bread?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Zara says. “You can pay me back when your mum gets home.”

  “I don’t take charity.” My voice wavers. “Hopefully, I’ll never have to.” A terrifying vision comes to mind of Oscar and me sitting in a Salvation Army soup kitchen alongside alcoholics and homeless people. I push it away, grab Zara’s hand and press a few coins into it.

  “Okay,” she says. “I didn’t mean –”

  “I know you didn’t. It’s just –”

  “I know, Jamie. I know.” For a second, we hold each other’s gaze. “It was four-fifty,” she says at last. “Here’s your change.” She hands me back a dollar fifty.

  I hold her to me, breathe in her sweet but subtle floral smell. “Thank you,” I whisper, then take a step back. “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “What for?”

  “For dumping all of this on you. I talk too much. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “Are you kidding?” Her hands are resting on my upper arms. “I have a sister who can’t communicate and parents who are usually too focused on her to engage with me. I love the fact that you don’t pretend things are okay when they’re not.”

  I put my arms around her, pull her towards me. She hugs me back and for a second, it feels as if we’re one person. If I could just freeze time, all my worries would fall away.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell Oscar. “I’ll just walk Zara to the door.”

  Oscar jumps up and follows.

  “Bye, Oscar,” says Zara.

  I’m longing to kiss her and wonder if she’d want me to, but the timing’s not right – not with Oscar standing beside us.

  Where r u? It’s a text from Dylan. Should we wait?

  Oscar’s schedule has taken priority over mine. I’d forgotten that I normally play basketball on Wednesday evenings.

  I text Dylan back, telling him that I can’t make it this evening and apologising for not letting anyone know. I sympathise with him, knowing he’ll have to put up with the miserable B-team without me.

  When Oscar is asleep, I tiptoe into Mum’s office. It still feels wrong entering her space without permission, but there was a reason she showed me the drawer containing her will and other important papers. She m
entioned a list of people I could turn to for help.

  I find two wills – hers and Dad’s, both written before he died. There’s a lump in my throat and my heart is hammering in my chest. But I force myself to open them.

  Mum’s will is outdated. Dad’s leaves everything he owns and all decisions regarding the children to Mum, while Mum’s will leaves everything she owns and all decisions regarding the children to Dad. Both mention a trust fund that has been set up for Oscar, and the two wills have an identical list of the people who might help in the event of both my parents’ deaths.

  First on the list – Nan, with her name crossed out. Nan died more than two years ago.

  Next on the list – Aunt Selena and Uncle Roger. Their home phone number is handwritten beside their names. At last, a number for Aunt Selena! But when I dial it, the phone rings out. And her mobile number isn’t listed there. As for Uncle Roger, it was his disappearance that caused all the grief in the first place. Is he even part of the family, now that he’s no longer Aunt Selena’s other half?

  Third on the list – Gregory Simpson, a minister who is also a distant cousin of Dad’s and lives in Brisbane. I haven’t seen him in years and barely remember him. What I do remember is hearing his wife, Adele, saying that people with Down syndrome and other disabilities were put on this earth to teach the rest of us compassion. As if Oscar’s life isn’t valuable in and of itself. I hate that idea, and I hate the arrogance of people who presume to know such things.

  There are no more people on the list.

  I bury my head in my hands and press my fingertips over my eyelids to relieve the burning sensation behind my eyes.

  Mum, where are you? What should I do?

  I won’t give in to the tears that threaten. Instead, I try to think practically, like Dad always did. I imagine him here, talking to me, solving problems, and I manage to think up the kinds of questions he’d have asked.

  Is there still a mortgage on the house or has it been paid off?

  If there is a mortgage, how much money is needed to meet monthly payments?

  I start looking for bank statements, then stop, appalled at what I’m doing. I refuse to believe Mum’s not coming home.

  No news is good news. No news is good news.

  But no news isn’t good enough. I want proof that Mum is alive and well and will soon be home.

  I lie in bed, unable to sleep. I try channelling Dad.

  What are your options? I imagine him saying.

  What are my options?

  1. Do nothing. Assume Mum will return.

  2. Call the police. Tell them she’s missing.

  3. Tell someone at school – Mrs Malone, Mr Patterson, Mr Larch?

  4. Tell a friend.

  Option one means not facing the possibility that Mum won’t come home. It means spending all my savings until I run out of money, after which time I might have to leave school and get a job. I might also have to sell the house – can I, if it isn’t in my name? – Or would the bank repossess it?

  Option two would set in motion a whole chain of events that would involve social workers and foster homes. Oscar would be taken away and I would have broken my promise to look after him. And I would have to live with the guilt and the pain of being separated from him.

  Option three would result in the same chain of events as option two.

  Option four I’ve already done. I’ve told Zara and I’ve told Dan. I suppose I could tell other friends as well, but the more people I tell, the more likely it is that word will spread, leading to the same result as options two and three because friends can only help in the short-term, and only up to a point.

  So I’m back where I started. And I’m all out of options.

  I’m outside, looking in. The gruesome building is locked, the windows barred. On the other side of the bars, Oscar is sitting on a cold, dirt floor, crying softly. “Oscar,” I call. I want to tell him that I’ve come to rescue him, but he can’t see or hear me. And the truth is, I don’t have a plan.

  In the morning, I’m exhausted. All night long I had nightmares about Oscar being thrown into medieval institutions, where he was locked in a dungeon and fed lumpy gruel twice a day.

  What if something has happened to Mum and she never makes it home?

  I make Oscar sandwiches to take to school, grateful that Zara brought a generous-sized loaf.

  “Three more days till my birthday,” he says. “Who will come to my party?”

  I’m tempted to suggest we skip it this year, but Oscar gets a bigger buzz over birthdays than anyone I know. His excitement builds weeks before and reaches fever pitch on the day itself. He’s ecstatic over anyone’s birthday, but especially his own.

  “Who will come?” he asks again.

  He’s expecting a party and I’d hate to disappoint him. His birthday is on Sunday, so I should be able to arrange it, even if it is only three days away. Mum was an expert at arranging last-minute parties. I catch myself thinking of her in the past tense and shiver.

  “I will, Oscar. And Zara said she would.”

  “Who else?”

  “Didn’t Dan say he would?”

  “Yes,” says Oscar.

  He pushes his cereal aside, spilling it in the process, jumps up and finds a piece of paper, then sits back down at the table and starts writing a list: Oscar, Jamie, Zara, Dan.

  “Four,” he says. “Four’s not enough.”

  “Who else do you want?”

  “Barney. And Jason.” He adds their names to the list. He’s spelled all the names correctly. I’m impressed.

  “You’re a good speller, Oscar.”

  “I know,” he says.

  “Have you got Barney’s mother’s number?”

  “No. I know Barney’s number by heart.”

  “I’ll have to speak to his mum. Ask him for her number when you see him at school.”

  “Okay,” says Oscar. “Will you ring her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you ring Jason’s mum?”

  “Yes, but only if you’re ready for school by the time the bus comes.”

  He runs to his room and gets his school bag.

  “I want a big party,” he says, as we wait outside.

  “Do you want to ask Vicky?” I ask, remembering a girl in his class who once came to play.

  “No. Vicky’s annoying.”

  “How about Warren?”

  “I don’t like Warren any more.”

  “Why not?”

  “He stopped going to dancing.”

  The logic of this statement eludes me, but Oscar doesn’t always make sense.

  “I want Lucy to come to my party.”

  “Lucy? From adult all-abilities basketball?”

  “Yes. And Michael.”

  “I’ll ask them,” I say.

  As Oscar’s bus disappears from view, I breathe a sigh of relief before remembering that:

  a) it’s Thursday and my maths exam – not the practice one, but the one that counts – is tomorrow morning and I haven’t studied

  b) I have three days in which to arrange a party for Oscar, and

  c) unless I do something about money, we will starve.

  Food is clearly the most pressing concern. Without consciously deciding to skip school, at Hampton Street I head in the opposite direction, towards the bank.

  I opened a savings account when I turned fifteen, but I’m not sure exactly how much is in it. I was saving for something I might want one day – my first car, a trip overseas. Mum gives me pocket money each month but most of the money in my account is from working at Hungry Jack’s in the summer.

  I’ve never used my debit card, but I remember the PIN. I wait behind an elderly man at the ATM outside the bank and step up to the machine when he tucks a wad of bills into his wallet and walks away. I check my account balance – $986.45.

  It seems like a lot, but I know how quickly it can disappear if I’m not careful. I withdraw $150, hoping it will last till Mum gets home.<
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  If Mum gets home.

  I try to silence the voice in my head. I’m not ready to face the possibility that she won’t.

  At the supermarket, I try to make my dollars stretch by buying rice and lentils, an inexpensive brand of almond milk and Home Brand cereal. I buy fruit and vegetables on special, a couple of loaves of wholegrain bread and the cheapest dairy-free biscuits I can find. For Oscar’s party, I buy assorted biscuits on sale and large value packs of chocolate and potato chips.

  As I wait at the check-out, I think about tomorrow’s exam. Could I put Oscar into overnight respite? Mum did that once or twice when she wasn’t well. It would mean I’d have the whole evening to study. Respite isn’t free but maybe we could pay for it later, after Mum comes home.

  But Oscar hates respite. He might refuse to go. And how would I get him to school in the morning? I suppose I could spend money on a taxi, but would it really be worth it?

  Then I remember – Oscar has been banned from respite. Last time he was there, he banged on all the bedroom doors at 2 am and woke everyone up.

  “That will be forty-six, fifty-five.” The cashier’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

  “What?”

  “Forty-six dollars and fifty-five cents,” she repeats, absentmindedly.

  I hand over a fifty-dollar note and pocket the change.

  I walk home with the groceries and put them away.

  The strain of looking after Oscar and not knowing what’s happened to Mum is exhausting. I kick off my shoes, lie down on the couch and close my eyes. When I wake up it’s after three. I’ve slept for over four hours.

  I get up and make myself a cup of tea and an avocado sandwich but manage to get only half of it down. I wrap it up for later, careful not to waste food.

  My phone rings. It’s Dan. This time I answer.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Not really,” I say.

  “Why aren’t you at school?”

  “Are you?” I ask.

  “Sadly, yes.” He lets out a sigh. “The school rang my mum. They told her I haven’t been coming in and she went mental. This morning, she drove me to school herself and waited outside till she saw me go in. I was hoping you’d be here. Where are you?”