A Weekend with Oscar Page 9

  “At home. Where were you, when you were skipping school?”

  “At the movies.”

  I can’t resist a chuckle, surprised I still have a sense of humour. “Thanks,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “For making me laugh.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says. “Glad one of us is.”

  “But seriously, Dan. Skipping school isn’t the answer. Maybe you should talk to Mr Patterson.”

  “Drop it, Jamie.”

  “Just saying. Listen, I’m organising a party for Oscar on Sunday. Can you come?”

  “Of course. I told Oscar I would.”

  As soon as I get off the phone from Dan, I ring Michael.

  “Jamie, hey mate! Everything okay now?”

  “Not quite. I need a favour. Can you come to Oscar’s party on Sunday?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Two o’clock. And see if Lucy can make it too.”

  “Done,” he says.

  I haven’t even started studying when Oscar gets home. He gives me Georgia’s number – he’s learned it by heart – and I ring her and invite Barney to the party on Sunday. She tells me he’ll be there. Then Oscar calls Natalie himself.

  “Can Jason come to my party on Sunday?” He has to repeat himself three times before Natalie understands what he’s saying. It’s harder to understand him over the phone.

  “She wants to speak to Mum,” he tells me, and hands me the phone.

  “Natalie, hi. Mum’s not here. She decided to stay a bit longer in Perth.”

  “And left it to you to arrange the party?”

  “I offered,” I say. “So, will Jason be able to come?”

  “Sure,” she says.

  “Great. Two o’clock. And, uh, any chance you could take Oscar swimming on Saturday and bring him home again? It’s just, otherwise he won’t be able to go. ”

  A hesitation on the line. Then, “Yeah, okay.”

  “Well, good news, Oscar,” I tell him after I end the call. “Everyone’s coming to your party. Everyone you wanted.”

  Oscar grins and claps his hands.

  “How about spending the rest of the day colouring?” I ask him.

  “I’ve got drumming.”

  I was hoping he’d forgotten. “Listen, I don’t think I can get you there. You’re going to have to take a break from some of your after-school activities until Mum gets home.”

  “I don’t like storms,” he says.

  “Mum wants you and Oscar to come for dinner tomorrow.” I’m talking to Zara on the phone, after Oscar is in bed.

  “You didn’t tell her –” I begin.

  “No, don’t worry, Jamie. I said I wouldn’t, and I won’t. She only knows your mum went to see her sister in Perth. She doesn’t realise she was meant to be back.”

  “It will be a week tomorrow since she left.”

  “Yeah,” she says softly. “So, will you come?”

  “Sure, what time?”

  “Around six. Mum said to tell you it will just be an ordinary weekday dinner. Relaxed and casual.”

  “Great,” I say. I don’t want to end the call – I want to prolong the sense of connection, but Zara says she has to go.

  “Bye, Jamie. Good luck for tomorrow.”

  It takes me a while to figure out she means the exam.

  I dream I’m at the movies with Zara. We’re sitting in the back row, watching Jafar’s Journey. We start making out. I look up and it’s Zara and me I see on the screen. We’re watching a movie starring the two of us and this one’s not G-rated.

  When Oscar wakes me on Friday morning, reality hits. I want nothing more than to burrow deeper under the covers and go back to sleep. Instead, I channel Mum and try to seem cheerful. I force myself to go through the motions of everyday life, because I know how important routine is for Oscar. Mum always insisted that whatever else was happening, whatever might be going wrong in our lives, Oscar needed routine.

  His morning routine hasn’t changed. He eats breakfast, brushes his teeth and waves goodbye from the bus as he leaves for New Haven Special School. But now it’s me, not Mum, who makes sure he eats breakfast, brushes his teeth and has lunch in his bag.

  I’ve hardly slept and I’m exhausted. I toy with the idea of going back to bed, but Mum’s voice is loud and persistent in my head: Jamie, stick to routine. Maybe it’s not just for Oscar.

  The thought of sprinting to school in time to make it to my maths exam is making me nauseous.

  I don’t make a conscious decision to skip the exam. But I don’t decide to do it either. I drag my feet and procrastinate. By the time I reach school, the exam is over.

  Dan joins Zara and me in the cafeteria at lunchtime and the two of them dissect the exam. “I think I failed,” says Dan. “Don’t know how I’ll break it to my mother.”

  “Tell your dad first?” Zara suggests.

  “My parents are divorced,” says Dan. “I hardly ever see my dad. My mum scared him off.”

  I don’t contribute to the conversation. While Dan complains about his mum, I’m wondering whether mine is even alive.

  The home phone rings soon after I get home. I pick up, daring to hope it’s Mum.

  It’s not. It’s Mrs Malone.

  “Jamie? You missed the exam this morning. Are you ill?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. Someone said they saw you at school.”

  I don’t reply.

  “Jamie, I’d like to speak to your mother.”

  “You can’t,” I say. “She isn’t home.”

  “Then could you please give me her mobile number.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, I can’t. Sorry, Mrs Malone. I have to go.”

  My heart is pounding. I can’t believe I hung up on a teacher.

  As Oscar has missed dance and drumming this week, as well as most of his other activities, I’m glad that speech therapy – which is near Zara’s – is still on the agenda. Oscar has been going there for the last ten years and he adores his therapist, Christine.

  I enter the old weatherboard house with him. I haven’t been here for ages. The whole family came to the first few sessions when Oscar was little, so that we’d learn how to work with him at home. We’d make a game of it, pronouncing sounds and words, repeating them over and over.

  Every night we’d work with Oscar – on speech as well as the exercises his physiotherapist and occupational therapist taught us. I remember how excited he was when he managed to run into our arms without falling and how happy we were when he mastered new words.

  It’s been years since the whole family were involved in his therapies.

  I leave Oscar with Christine and head over to Zara’s, texting that I’m on my way.

  She’s sitting on the front fence, waiting for me. She’s changed out of her school uniform, into jeans and a windcheater flecked with paint. Her hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, a few stray strands caressing her forehead and cheek.

  The sight of her brings back this morning’s dream and I feel myself blushing. We hug and my hormones start to kick in. I squirm with embarrassment, hoping Zara hasn’t noticed.

  She takes my hand and we head to the shed.

  Boris weaves himself around Zara’s legs as she opens the door, and leads the way in, as if the shed belongs to him.

  The shed smells strongly of turpentine. Zara has already selected more paintings to show me.

  In the first, a brick wall divides the canvas. There’s a door in the wall and it’s open, but the single girl in the painting is ignoring it. Once again, the girl looks like Hayley. Or is it Zara?

  Zara comes to stand beside me, so close her shoulder’s touching my arm. It’s wonderful, but torturous too.

  I put my arm around her and give her shoulder a squeeze.

  “I want to help her,” she says, her eyes on the painting. “I want to say, The door is open. All you have to do is walk through it. But she’s
oblivious. I can’t make her see it.”

  In the next painting, the same wall divides the canvas. The same door is open. In this painting, the girl sees the door and is walking towards it, a look of hope on her face. And in the third and final painting in the series, the girl has reached the door and is walking through it.

  “You made her see it, after all.”

  “Yeah,” says Zara. “Wishful thinking.”

  I guess you can do that in art. Create a world you want instead of the one that exists. I’d create a world in which Dad is alive and Mum isn’t missing.

  I toy with the idea of telling Zara I dreamed about her, then flush with shame. How can I even think about flirting when my mother is missing?

  If only I could snap my fingers and bring her back!

  “Take a look at my bottle series,” Zara says, moving to the other side of the shed.

  I try to push my worry aside and focus on Zara’s fabulous paintings. There are six in the series. The bottle is the same in every painting, but a different person is inside each one.

  “The bottle is a metaphor,” I say, at last. “If you ‘bottle’ things up, you’re the one who ends up captive.”

  “Exactly. Is it too obvious? ‘Bottling it up’ is such a clichéd expression.”

  “Yeah, but that’s why people will get it. And it’s only a cliché when it’s spoken.”

  I notice a painting in the back corner of the shed – still on the easel. I walk towards it.

  Zara follows. “Don’t touch,” she says. “That one’s still wet.”

  I glance at Zara. It’s not the painting I want to touch.

  The painting features a horizontal stone wall, with deep dark crevices into which letters are falling. “Have you included every letter of the alphabet?”

  Zara nods. “Multiple times, some more than others.”

  “Words falling between the cracks,” I say.

  “Exactly. It’s the communication that’s lost. It’s all the things we never say.”

  “It’s brilliant,” I say.

  I pick up Oscar from speech therapy and we come back to Zara’s. She opens the door cradling Boris. Oscar starts panicking, but Zara quickly closes the cat door and locks Boris outside.

  When we enter the kitchen, the first thing I notice is Oscar’s painting on the wall in a silver frame. “Look, Oscar!”

  “I did that,” he says.

  “We love it,” says Katie. “Thank you for parting with it.”

  Once again, Hayley is already at the table. We sit down in the same seats we sat in last time.

  Katie puts a jug of water on the table. “I understand your mum is visiting her sister in Perth.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “There’s a storm in Perth,” Oscar adds.

  Katie is struggling to understand him, but she’s managed to decipher the words “Perth” and “storm”.

  “Yes, there was,” she says, “a terrible storm.”

  Luckily, Oscar doesn’t pick up on her use of past tense.

  Katie gives me a look I can’t quite read. “Your mum must trust you a lot, to leave the two of you alone.”

  “I guess.” Does she think Mum’s irresponsible for leaving me alone with Oscar?

  “And how are you managing without her?”

  “Fine,” I lie.

  “When do you expect her back?”

  “Next Friday night,” I say, buying myself another week.

  Katie’s cooking is what Mum would call a “culinary adventure”. Last time we came, she made shepherd’s pie. This time it’s something called chicken cacciatore, another first for Oscar and me. And just as delicious.

  “Salt,” says Hayley. Zara’s parents both rush to give it to her, laughing as their hands collide. It’s a big deal that Hayley has spoken, even if she has said only a single word.

  I’m looking at a large painting. It’s one of Zara’s bottles. The figure inside it has his back to me. He isn’t moving. Who is it? I wonder. I think it’s Oscar, but he turns around and I see that it’s me. I’m the one trapped inside the glass. If I shout, no one will hear.

  Sunday, August 4th, the day of Oscar’s birthday, has arrived. He runs into my room and jumps on top of me. I grab him and tickle him and give him a hug. “Happy birthday, Oscar.”

  “I’m big now,” he says.

  “Yes, you are,” I agree. “You’re thirteen years old.”

  I let him hang around in his pyjamas and watch SpongeBob SquarePants. We have the kind of long, lazy morning I love, though every ten minutes Oscar asks, “How much longer till my party?”

  Eventually, we go for a walk because we have hours to fill before two o’clock, and if I hear How much longer till my party? one more time, my head will explode.

  We’re home by noon and shortly after, Zara arrives. She’s wearing a cute top over jeans and she’s just washed her hair. It’s loose and flowing and smells of peaches.

  Oscar bounds towards us before she even gets in the door. His eyes move from the canvas shopping bag she’s holding in one hand to the basket in the other. “What’s that?” he asks.

  “Guess,” she says.

  “Balloons? A birthday present?”

  Zara laughs. “I have both of those. And something else, too.” We follow her into the kitchen. “I baked it this morning.” She reveals a birthday cake covered in white icing and the words Happy Birthday Oscar piped in the centre.

  Oscar jumps up and down. “Is it chocolate cake?” he asks.

  “Of course.” Zara whispers, “Dairy-free,” in my ear as she sets it on a stand, produces candles and carefully places them around the edge. “It’s for your party. Think you can wait?”

  “Yes.” Oscar nods happily.

  “What’s in the shopping bag?” I can’t resist asking.

  “Lunch,” says Zara. “Lentil burgers and salad. With compliments from my mum.” She places two containers on the table and removes their lids.

  I feel humbled by Katie’s generosity, and a little embarrassed. “Your mum really didn’t have to do that. Does she think we don’t have food?”

  Zara quickly shakes her head. “No, of course not.”

  “Then why is she feeding us?”

  “She knows your mum is away and she wants to help. She has this amazingly developed radar for people in need.”

  “Even though she’s got Hayley?”

  “Because she’s got Hayley. She says having Hayley made her realise that most people struggle, in different ways.”

  I remember Mum once saying that some parents of kids with special needs are mean and competitive and all they care about is their own child. They keep the names of great therapists a secret or don’t share information about how to apply for funding, because there’s always this feeling there isn’t enough – enough therapy or money or whatever – to go around. “Although some parents are lovely,” Mum added, refusing to generalise. Katie must be one of the lovely ones.

  “I really like your mum,” I say.

  “So do I.” Zara finds three plates and puts burgers and salad onto each one.

  I set the table for three and make sure Oscar washes his hands. Soon I’m biting into the best lentil burger I’ve ever had.

  “These are amazing. Aren’t they, Oscar?”

  “Yum,” he agrees.

  At two o’clock, Natalie arrives with Jason. “You coping okay?” It sounds like a question, but she rushes on, saving me the need to answer. “Your mum’s lucky she’s got you to rely on.”

  Is it my imagination or do I detect a hint of envy in Natalie’s voice? Jason is an only child and Natalie’s a single mum. It must be hard having sole responsibility and no one to help.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Natalie asks.

  “No need,” I say.

  “Well, enjoy the party.”

  Jason has already disappeared inside.

  Over the next twenty minutes, the remaining guests arrive and Oscar is torn between welcoming them and tear
ing the wrapping paper off the presents they bring him.

  Oscar does well out of this party. Dan gives him a packet of forty-eight coloured pencils that go perfectly with the new mandala colouring book Zara has bought him. Michael and Lucy give him a basketball signed by a professional player – how did they get hold of it? – and Jason gives him a box of magic tricks.

  Barney is the last to arrive. When I open the door, Georgia tries to see past me into the house. “Where’s the birthday boy?”

  “Oscar, Barney’s here,” I call.

  Oscar comes to the door and gives Barney a hug.

  “Where’s your mum?” she asks.

  “In Perth,” I say. “She went to visit her sister.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “You’re a good kid, Jamie. Doing all of this on your own.”

  I can’t wait for her to leave, a part of me terrified I’ll break down and tell her the truth.

  Zara puts on music and soon everyone is dancing, including Dan, who’s clowning around like his old self today.

  When Oscar and Jason get tired of dancing, Dan decides it’s time to tell jokes:

  Q: What did the ice cream say to the unhappy birthday cake?

  A: What’s eating you?

  Q: Why do we put candles on top of a birthday cake?

  A: Because it’s too hard to put them on the bottom!

  Q: What is the left side of a birthday cake?

  A: The side that’s not eaten.

  The jokes are lame, but I overreact with manic laughter, bent over double till tears are streaming down my face.

  Where are you, Mum?

  Q: Why are birthdays good for you?

  A: People who have the most live the longest!

  Oscar doesn’t understand the jokes, but he laughs harder than anyone.

  “Happy birthday, bro,” I say when he catches my eye.

  “Jamie, you’re crying,” Oscar says.

  “They’re happy tears. I’m just glad you’re having a party.”

  Don’t think of Mum, don’t think of Mum, don’t think of Mum.

  The hug I give him is longer than strictly necessary and I force myself to pull away. “Who wants cake?”