Oleanders are Poisonous Page 2

  I was pushing it, but I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t break the window on purpose, did I?

  He rounded on me with his height and bulk, and I backed down. When he lowered his voice to a growl, it scared me even more. ‘That’s enough. You’re ten, not two. It’s time you learnt to act your age. Just because you have a roof over your head now, doesn’t mean you’ll have one tomorrow.’

  ‘Will so,’ I whispered behind his back, as he left me to ponder what he meant. I hadn’t liked the sound of whatever it was. Was he going to chuck me out and keep my mum? Send me to boarding school?

  Okay, it was over five years ago, and I’d copped several smacks to the back of my legs with a wooden spoon before I succumbed, but he never mentioned it again. Still, words like that stay with you.

  Samuel slumps in his chair. ‘I can’t do this,’ he says, hands knitting into a cap over his head. I pause, toast halfway to my mouth. Samuel’s voice sounds as if it’s struggling to escape, tense, like water trapped in a folded hose. This indestructible bull of a man, this six-foot-something copper who always takes care of everyone else’s troubles, actually needs someone to lean on?

  The pain on his face tells me how much he loves my mum. ‘Samuel? Do you want me to come with you?’ I really hope he says no. Please. I don’t know how to handle this either.

  He’s buried in his own thoughts. ‘I’m not letting her go.’

  A string of honey leaks from my toast onto my plate. I wipe at the puddle with my finger, then suck on it. Samuel looks up, absently watching my motions. His eyes have a faraway look in them, but I suddenly feel weird, my finger in my mouth like that. Ever since my boobs decided to put in a late appearance – poof! A sudden growth spurt, literally overnight, I swear – they’ve made me self-conscious, mostly because of the ogling from boys at school. Not that Samuel had ever, would ever, look at me that way. God, no. I’m lucky to get a hug from him. Even then it’s one quick squeeze, then his hands grasp my arms, ready to push me away again. An army sergeant embrace. Or cop, in his case.

  The lounge room clock chimes eight times. I drop my toast and sigh. ‘Okay. Give me a minute to brush my teeth and get dressed.’

  ~

  Inside the entrance to the hospital clinic, a table is laid out with stuff made or donated by the Ladies Auxiliary: packets of coconut-covered rum balls – are they allowed to sell stuff with alcohol in them here? Or are they like the ones Mum used to make for me, without rum? And why not just call them coconut balls, or chocolate balls? – a multi-coloured tea cosy, notepads, crocheted baby booties in soft pinks and yellows, other bits and pieces nobody wants. A note is sticky-taped to a bank-issued money tin: ‘Honesty Box’.

  Mum hangs back to pick up a knitted clothes hanger that’s fallen onto the linoleum. She used to be crazy about knitting. Crazy. Poor word choice. I still have some of the jumpers, beanies and scarves she made with love – if not taste. Now all of her knitting morphs into some weirdly knotted mass, which looks like the mould that grows near the back fence after we’ve had a few wet days in a row.

  ‘Not as good as mine,’ she declares loudly, waving the hanger.

  ‘Put it back, Delia,’ Samuel says. I know he doesn’t mean to be harsh; he’s tense.

  Mum obeys, and he drags her away by the hand.

  The waiting room is stark with its easy-to-clean chairs, floors and walls. As we sit, Samuel’s denials continue. ‘You’re okay. We’re okay. We can manage.’ He pats Mum’s hand, then holds it tight in his fist. I’m not sure if he’s talking to himself, or to me, or to Mum, so I keep quiet, my heart constricting for his pain. Our pain. I want to say something supportive, to tell him it isn’t all that bad, but the socks in the freezer, the oven mitt in the toaster and the hairdryer left blowing hotter and hotter on the bathroom sink, won’t let me. Enough denial. I’m secretly glad the months of tests have come to an end.

  The doctor takes us into his office and swivels his computer monitor so we can see. He points to grey and white scans of Mum’s brain. ‘See these areas here?’ he says. I peer closely, but all I see are squiggles. ‘I’m afraid the progression has sped up.’

  Samuel and I look to see Mum’s reaction. She sits stiff and upright as if she’s in Sunday church, a slight upward tilt to her mouth. Is she smiling? Maybe she isn’t listening.

  I try to catch Samuel’s eye, hoping he might break through to her. He pats her hand again. He’s still holding on tight, as if letting go will send her floating off into the awful world he’s trying to keep her from. ‘Delia, did you hear what the doctor said?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ She pats him back as if he’s the one being given the bad news. ‘I might be losing my memory, but I’m not deaf.’

  The doctor continues, using words like hippocampus, plaques, atrophied. Though he explains them, the words flow through me and slip away. What’s wrong with me? I should be paying attention. Remembering.

  ‘What are our options? How do we fix this?’ Samuel asks, as if he hasn’t asked it too many times before.

  The doctor looks at Mum, who’s busy playing with her scarf, then lowers his voice to Samuel. ‘Maybe I can give you a call? Talk privately?’

  Samuel shakes his head. ‘We’re not hiding anything from Delia. She needs to know too.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  Samuel glares.

  The doctor sighs. ‘Okay. Well, research is ongoing, but there’s no cure, as you know.’ He explains, again, how variable it is. ‘Is she becoming disorientated? Volatile?’

  Hell, yes! I want to say. But I don’t. How does Mum feel being spoken about as if she’s not even here?

  ‘She’s fine,’ Samuel says, and I flick him an incredulous look. She’s not.

  ‘If she does, medication may help manage her behaviour, but you probably need to start thinking about a future care plan.’ He holds out some pamphlets. ‘I know you already have home assistance, but you might want to think about’—he glances at Mum again—‘Sorry, Delia ... a plan for when things get unmanageable.’

  Samuel ignores the pamphlets, anger edging his voice. ‘I said she’s fine. Not a burden.’ He stands. ‘We’ll manage.’

  In the car, on the way home, false bravado hangs like dirty laundry no-one wants to air.

  ‘We need to go to the chemist,’ Samuel says. Then he talks about buying fertiliser for the vegetable patch and picking up milk.

  Mum nods, agreeable, smiling.

  I struggle to find the right words, ones that won’t tip things into anger or upset. I want to shake them both, make them tell me what we’re going to do. How we’re going manage. The doctor seems to think things are going to get worse. When? And what does worse look like?

  I should have said something earlier, back when I knew things weren’t right. Before Samuel came along. People said it was grief over Dad. The flaky, airy-fairy-ness of her. I sometimes wondered if it was caused by having me so late in life. ‘I was a young forty-two,’ Mum had said. ‘But they had to resuscitate me after you were born.’ Did something happen to her brain then? I don’t even know why she told me that. It gave me nightmares.

  Still, I was right, wasn’t I? ‘Early-onset dementia’ the doctor called it. Not some twenty-six-letter-long disease none of us could pronounce. Just dementia. Plain and simple. He couldn’t say when it started, but I knew.

  ~

  After lunch, Samuel and I stand side by side doing the dishes. I’m a bit squirrely because there’s something I need to ask him. Something personal, and I’m not sure if now is the right time, given what we’ve been through this morning. What the hell, I take a breath—

  And Mum interrupts. ‘It’s not the way it’s done, is it?’

  I glance at her. She’s sitting at the kitchen table flicking through magazines and holding a mumbled conversation with herself, or maybe invisible friends.

  She says it again, louder.

  I frown. Is she talking to us? ‘What’s that, Mum?’

  She looks up. ‘The papers. T
hey don’t get folded that way, do they?’

  I put the tea towel down, then go to look over her shoulder at the open magazine. I can’t see what she’s talking about. ‘What papers, Mum?’

  ‘Not that!’ She slaps her open palm down on the magazine. I step back. ‘The other day. The papers on the thing. You know.’

  I bite my lip. ‘No, I don’t know. Where was the thing?’ I ask, trying to fathom a clue.

  ‘Yes,’ she insists, irritated. ‘The other day. On the thing by the ... the ...’ She stares mid-air, brow furrowed.

  Samuel has turned now, and I look to him for help. He’s as stumped as me. ‘What papers, Delia?’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. The papers!’ she yells, slamming her fist. She rakes her chair back so suddenly it falls over.

  I gasp, recoil. It’s not her violence that startles me – I’m getting used to her outbursts, as much as a person can – but she swore. Mum never swears. Never.

  Her face crumples, and she looks as if she’s about to cry. God, I wish I could help her. It’s frustrating for all of us, but how must she feel not being able to express herself? I move to put my arm around her. ‘Poor thing. Don’t worry. We’ll remember later.’

  It happens in a second. Her arm flings back and catches me across the face. ‘I am NOT a poor thing.’

  I’m so stunned, I just stand there, tasting blood, hand on my mouth. Samuel bolts across to us, grabs my shoulders and pulls me away. ‘It’s okay, you’re okay,’ he says. I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or Mum. She looks horrified. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she cries, grabbing at her hair. ‘I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t want this. I don’t want it.’ Samuel leads her away to the bedroom, murmuring gentle things to her. She’s sobbing, and it breaks me.

  I hurry to the bathroom, wash my face, rinse blood from my mouth, try to work through what just happened. Maybe I should have let her keep going, let her calm down in her own time. How am I supposed to know the right words, the right thing to do? I run my tongue over my lower lip. There’s a lump forming already.

  Samuel comes up behind me, turns me around and lifts my chin. ‘That’s going to bruise.’

  Oh really, Einstein, I want to say.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I should have seen that coming. It’s been a big morning.’

  I twist my chin away. ‘Yeah. It happened so fast. No time to duck.’

  He pats my shoulder. ‘Maybe try not to patronise her so much.’

  I swallow. Is he blaming me? God, don’t cry, not in front of Samuel. I choke my voice out. ‘Maybe we should think about that medication the doctor mentioned?’

  He doesn’t answer, just heads back to the kitchen. I follow.

  He’s silent as he cleans, and a spike of resentment rises in me. Is that it then? End of conversation? Wouldn’t now be a good time to talk about the future? I mean tantrums are one thing, but hitting out is another. Is this the ‘worse’ the doctor was taking about?

  He pauses his washing. ‘I think you’re right.’

  I look sideways at him, see the tiredness in his face, the sadness, and my anger subsides. I bite my lip. Ow! ‘It’s the right thing,’ I say, hoping I’m not patronising him now.

  We keep washing and drying in awkward silence. Maybe a change of subject will help. I still want to talk about my problem. The thing happening inside my t-shirt. It needs to be dealt with before the shops shut this afternoon. Before I return to school Monday. I can’t handle the boys staring at me. It’s too icky. I’m sure I’m the last girl in the whole school to get fitted. And I can’t ask Mum, obviously. Geez, I picture her walking around the store with a bra on her head, announcing to the world that her daughter has new boobs. Maybe an exaggeration, but I’ve read that loss of inhibition is a common side effect of dementia, and I’m already dying inside having to ask Samuel for help.

  Wait ... if I use my pocket money, I won’t need to get him involved. ‘Samuel, could I have an advance?’

  ‘What for?’ He doesn’t bother looking up, keeps scrubbing overcooked bolognaise off a saucepan – burnt cuisine is a feature lately.

  ‘Stuff.’ Maybe I can slip this by him while he’s distracted.

  ‘If you need anything, you don’t have to use your pocket money. Tell me what it is, and I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘It’s ... personal stuff.’

  ‘What personal stuff?’ He stops his scrubbing and turns to me. He’s cranky. I’ve picked the wrong moment. ‘Be more specific. Is it for school?’

  Warmth creeps into my cheeks as I purse my lips, willing the awkward words to come out.

  ‘Girl stuff.’

  ‘Oh.’ Samuel scowls, then goes back to his scrubbing. ‘I thought we bought plenty of those with last week’s shopping?’

  ‘Not that girl stuff.’

  ‘Then what?’ He turns back to me, exasperated.

  I look down at my breasts, then back at him. He’s still looking puzzled. I’m going to have to spell it out.

  ‘I need ... bras.’

  ‘Oh.’ He coughs. ‘Well, you don’t have to use your pocket money for that. Do you ... need someone to take you?’

  ‘No!’ It comes out too forcefully, and we stand, uneasy, soap dripping onto the floor from Samuel’s hands. I rush to fill the silence with a sudden idea. ‘I’ll ask Mary, Mrs Worthington, if she can drive me up to Swan Hill. She’s always offering to help out.’

  Samuel looks relieved.

  3. Escapism

  Twenty minutes on a bus to Harry’s place makes for a forty-five minute bike ride. No buses on Sundays. Half-a-dozen galahs forage in the scraggy bush beside the road. A few lift their fairy floss heads to investigate as I pump past on the sticky asphalt. Their beady eyes follow my motion. Nothing to see here. Just me and my sweaty efforts. Exercise is good for taking your mind off things, they say. And they may be right. Once I get to Harry’s I know he’ll distract me too.

  I think about yelling or throwing something at the flock, for the sheer joy of seeing a cloud of pink and white take to the sky, but I leave them to their business while I keep huffing.

  Up ahead is Barry Coleman’s property. You can’t miss it – behind the wire fence sits his annual hay sculpture. Last year it was a giant wombat, big as a barn. This year, it’s a teddy bear that must be at least twelve metres high, its head, body and legs made from huge rolled bales. He’s even put a happy face on it, and square ears. So cute.

  When I get to Harry’s drive, I stop to remove my helmet and run a hand through my sweaty hat-hair. Pushing the gate open, I try to walk-wheel my bike through without getting off it, but when I turn to shut the gate, I lose my balance. Crap! Good thing paper daisies give a soft landing. I dust my shorts and set off the few hundred metres to the homestead.

  Clack, clack, clack. A twig has worked its way into the spokes of my trusty bike. The sound flashes me back to the day my dad pegged a playing card to the wheel strut of my new bicycle. I remember laughing at the rhythmic rat-a-tat-tat as I skimmed down our driveway, hair flying, sun on my face. Huh. I flick the memory away. That was another life. Besides, there’s no hair-flying now. Not with Samuel. No helmet, no bike.

  Harry strolls out onto the veranda. One hand holds his guitar, the other is raised to his eyes, fending off the sun’s glare.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi, yourself,’ I call from the bottom of the steps.

  He always looks different out of school uniform. Older. Kind of dishevelled and ... sexy. I blush at my own thoughts.

  ‘You’ve got bedhead,’ I tell him.

  He reaches up and ruffles his hair more. ‘Freedom of expression I believe it’s called.’

  ‘Freedom to bullshit, you mean.’

  ‘Freedom to smack you one.’ He grins.

  ‘Spell wanker.’

  ‘Fork you.’

  I rest my bike against a corroded wheelbarrow that’s serving as a garden planter. It’s crowded with jasmine in flower and my disturbance releases a sweet fr
agrance. I climb the stairs and join Harry on the porch.

  ‘You can’t talk,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What have you got in your hair?’ He reaches to pull something prickly from the side of my head. I get a whiff of his deodorant. It smells nice. Everything here smells nice.

  ‘I fell off my bike.’

  ‘Hang on, you’ve got some more here.’

  He moves closer, and there, sticking out between us, like two camel humps, are my breasts. My new bra is making them stand to attention, and Harry’s staring. And I’m staring at him. And praying that Mary, being his grandmother, hasn’t let the cat out of the bag. Not that the cat isn’t well and truly out, right here, right now. Harry flushes when he realises what he’s doing. I’m withering with embarrassment myself, though it’s somehow good to know I can have this effect on him.

  ‘Klutz,’ he says, flicking away the twig he’s pulled from my hair. He clears his throat, then goes over to his favourite wicker chair and sits, resting his guitar on his lap.

  Awkward moment over, I climb into my favourite place: the hammock. One foot on the ground, I push off to get a good swing happening. ‘I’m going to ask Samuel for one of these for my birthday.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘So, what’s this surprise you’ve got for me?’ I ask.

  ‘Patience.’ He strums a few chords before starting his ritual of minute twists on the knobs – machine heads, he calls them. His tongue is squished between his teeth while he concentrates on tuning his Maton. Temperature screws around with the strings. Moving from the cool of the house to the warm shade of the veranda can make a huge difference.

  I relax, chewing on a long bit of dead grass I’ve yanked from the garden, and look up at the porch’s roof, it’s pretty ironwork and peeling paint. Once upon a time, it would have been pristine, but with Harry’s parents often away doing their voluntourism trips to Third World countries, they have bigger priorities when they get back. Keeping their cattle alive through droughts, outweighs aesthetics. A-E-S-T-H-E-T-E ... no wait ... I-C-S.

  It reminds me of how our family farm got run down after Dad died and how Mum lost heaps of money on it. Still, I’m glad Samuel didn’t try to take it over. I can’t imagine him trying to look after both Mum and the farm at the same time. Better that it was sold. And besides, if all those things never happened, I might not have moved schools and met Harry.