Lisdalia (4 page)

8

JUST FATE

It began gradually. Dad was never one to complain about physical pain and he didn't this time, but over a period of weeks, by about the end of June, it became obvious that something was wrong.

I'd often catch him massaging the palm of his hand with his thumb, or testing the movement in his fingers, wriggling them slowly in the air, like he was playing an invisible piano. Or sometimes making a fist. And though he struggled to hide the grimace of pain, it was there in his eyes the second before he turned away.

Then he started to lose his grip on things; the cup that crashed to the floor and spilled hot coffee down his leg; the box of groceries that ended up spread across the tiles on the veranda when it “just slipped” out of his hands.

Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.

That was what the doctors called it. A pretty impressive title for the end of life as he knew it.

It's a problem with the nerves that operate the hand. They sort of knot up where they pass through the wrist-bone. It's incredibly painful, and you lose most of the use of your hand — in my father's case, both hands. It isn't uncommon for it to happen to both hands, though usually it doesn't happen to both at the same time. With him it did, and the pain must have been unbearable — though he almost never let it show.

For a while, he fought it. He went off to work every morning and struggled through the day. But it couldn't go on. It got to the stage where he couldn't lift a wheelbarrow or work the concrete. A concreter lives by his hands; Dad had for more than twenty years, but in the end he had to give in to the pain.

Maybe eight months, the doctor said. More likely a year. Then, if everything went well, he could go back to work. Of course, it all depended on the operations, and how well his hands recovered. Concreting was hard physical labour, and his hands would never be quite the same …

I had gone along with my father to see his specialist, Dr Raymond. It wasn't so much that Dad really needed a translator — his English wasn't all that bad. He just felt more comfortable knowing that there would be no trick words to trip him up or confuse him.

I watched his face when the doctor broke the news.

Twelve months.

I could see him calculating. And I noticed the colour draining from his tanned face. We were pretty comfortable; he'd always worked hard, and he had a little bit of money saved. But twelve months? A whole year without anything coming in?

He had his own business, but it was only small. Just himself and Gabi, the labourer. It couldn't run without him. He didn't say a word, but I knew him well enough to guess what he was thinking. How he was feeling.

“Why so long? Couldn't you …” My father's world was collapsing before his eyes, he was lost for words.

The doctor was a nice guy, very professional, very precise. He leaned back in his chair; I remember it was one of those high-backed leather ones that reclined and swivelled.

“You must understand, Mr Petrantonio. It is a serious condition, and a very delicate operation. If you try to rush it, the recovery could be impaired. Permanently.”

My father didn't understand “impaired”, but he knew it couldn't be good.

Driving home, he was quiet, thoughtful. I watched the pain in his eyes whenever he changed gears, and I wondered what was going through his mind. Here was something he couldn't just stand up to, or refuse to recognise. His pride and principles had no answer for the fact that his own body was letting him down. There was no one to blame. Not the doctor, certainly. It was just Fate.

When he turned into the driveway and cut the engine, I got out and moved towards the house, but he just sat there behind the wheel, staring at the garage door, as if somehow it might hold the solution.

It didn't. Five minutes later, I heard him come in through the back door, and call to Mum. They disappeared into their bedroom, and shut the door behind them.

9

TANJA'S STORY

I know Mr Petrantonio must have been hell on wheels to live with at times, but he was a great host.

Whenever I visited, after school or for the weekend, he couldn't do enough to make me feel welcome. Or rather, he couldn't get Mrs P and Lisdalia to do enough; but you know what I mean.

And he was great with Mike, which was a bit of a surprise, considering Mr Petrantonio's general attitudes and how close the boy was getting to his only daughter.

Not that there was a lot going on. They were still only kids. They hadn't reached the holding-hands-and-gazing-into-each-other's-eyes and other heavy stuff stage; that would come a fair bit later. But they were getting close, and Mr P was nothing if not old-fashioned.

I think he just liked Mike. He could talk to him. They'd sit there and discuss cars or soccer, or the way they were finally rounding up the Mafia in Italy. And it wasn't one-sided. Mike didn't just sit there and nod politely; he argued, he asked questions, and you could tell that Mr P enjoyed it. I think John and Tony were too busy most of the time with their jobs, their girls and their weight-training to sit down and just talk with their dad.

Mike enjoyed it too. His dad was still away in the Navy then, and I guess the male conversation did him good.

That's why the change was so noticeable, after they got the news from the doctor.

Lisdalia had told both Mike and me about it, of course
—
we had a no-secrets clause in our friendships
—
but even if she hadn't, we would have picked it instantly.

He no longer walked around singing snatches of opera, he didn't shout to his wife to make some coffee for us
—
“the real stuff, not that powder garbage”
—
when we arrived. It was almost as if he'd grown … old and tired overnight.

And Mrs P was no better. She looked worried, and though she tried to smile, it was forced and totally unconvincing …

10

BITTER MEDICINE

“Worried” didn't come close to describing it.

Our house was huge, and we'd only been in it about five years, so even though Dad had built it quite cheaply, using all his work contacts, they still had a big mortgage to pay off, and sickness benefits just weren't going to be enough to see them through.

Tony and John helped out, of course, as much as they could, but while it eased some of the pressure, each dollar they gave was a small piece torn from his pride. It didn't matter that he'd worked hard for twenty-odd years to support
us.
A man was only a man if … You know the story.

There was no fighting it. He was what he was, and that meant he was as much a victim of his pride now as I had always been.

Then Mum dropped the bombshell.

“No. I won't allow it!” He slammed his fork down so hard on the dinner table that the plates jumped. “Your place is here, not slaving in some factory.”

“It isn't ‘slaving'. I'd just be packing biscuits. Gracia can get me the job. She says it's easy.” My mother's voice was quiet, reasonable. She knew how much she was hurting him. “And if I took the early shift, I could be home by four.”

“So, you talked to Gracia. Why didn't you just write to the newspapers. Tell everyone …”

“There is nothing to be ashamed about!”
Suddenly, the dam burst. I had never seen my mother so worked up. Even when they were fighting, she rarely raised her voice. Now, she was shouting. “Next week you go into hospital. Then what? The boys are doing all they can, but they are only apprentices, they can't support us. And they shouldn't have to.” When she was upset, her Italian sometimes got confused, and a number of Spanish words crept in, but we understood her. “It may hurt your pride, Sergio, but you can't eat pride, and you can't pay it to the bank.” She took a deep breath.

“Do you think I want to go to work? How many people
want
to spend half their life in a factory, packing biscuits into boxes? But they do it, and so will I. Until you are well enough to work again.”

The look on her face allowed for no reply. I watched the fight drain out of my father's eyes. He pushed the chair back from the table, and walked slowly towards the door. Mum took a step forward, then changed her mind and watched as the door closed behind him. She sniffed once, then began to clear the half-full plates from the table.

I stood up and touched her gently on the shoulder. She turned and attempted a weak smile. Then she spoke to me in Spanish.

“La primera gota de la medicina siempre amarga.
”

The first sip of the medicine is always bitter.

Putting the plates onto the sink, she placed her arms lightly around me. “He will get used to things. Just give him a little time.”

Time was the one thing my father had plenty of. Months of time; and that was what was killing him.

11

SOME KIND OF DISEASE

I didn't think I could ever feel sorry for the guy.

Mr Plamenatz, I mean. After all he'd done to make my first months in High School such a pain. I should have cheered when he burned the science lab down — the way all the kids in his Year Nine class did, once they were all safely evacuated and the girls (and some of the boys) had stopped screaming.

He didn't actually burn the place
down,
he just singed it a bit, really. Once all the smoke cleared, and the fire-brigade went back to their station, there wasn't so much damage at all. Except to old Valium's pride.

No one was exactly sure of what caused the fire. He was carrying out a demonstration, and he must have dropped something that didn't like being dropped. There was too much confusion for anyone — except maybe the inspectors from the Education Department — to work out the exact details.

He was probably lucky that there was only a week to go before the break. The holidays would give the whole thing a chance to die down a little. As it was, he had to put up with anonymous voices calling out things like, “Do you smell something
burning?”
every time he'd turn to write on the board. He'd spin around and glare at the person he thought might be responsible, but he could never prove anything, so he just had to cop it.

It completely ruined his discipline. It's hard to stand over someone and make them feel nervous or self-conscious, if they're smiling at you like you're sharing some secret joke.

He took the last two days of the term off—with a “virus”.

That was enough to cheer me up and take my mind off the problems at home, at least for a while, but the news I received from Miss Vegas on the day before the holidays took me totally by surprise.

She kept me back after English. Plamenatz wasn't at school and she was smiling, almost, so I knew it couldn't be anything too bad.

I
hoped.

“Well, Lisdalia. You've really done it this time.” She was looking out of the window, and I couldn't tell exactly how she meant that.

“What do you mean?”

“You made the final. Of the writing competition. I told you it was good enough!” As she spoke, she turned to face me, and held up an official-looking envelope. “The presentations are at the University in August. That's when you'll know if you've won. Well, what do you say?”

What
could
I say?

“That's great.” I was trying to sound cool, but I was more excited than I'd imagined I would be, and I think it sneaked through into the way I spoke the words.

A thought struck me. “Miss, what's the prize? If I win, I mean.”

She sat down on the desk, and passed me the envelope. “I was sure I'd already told you.
When
you win, the school gets five hundred dollars worth of books for the library — which should make Mr Parnell very happy — and you —” she paused for effect “— all you get is a gold medal. Oh, and a ten-day trip for yourself and your parents to Queensland during the September holidays.”

I told Mum when I got home.

Dad was still in hospital, getting over the first of his two operations. He hadn't responded very well to the anaesthetic and they were keeping him in for a few days, until his breathing improved.

Dr Raymond had decided on two separate operations, so that Dad could have the use of one hand while the other one slowly recovered.

The damage was pretty bad, he said, and my father had left it far too long, and done far too much harm before deciding to get help. He also said (in private, to my mother) that he didn't know how my father had put up with the pain.

“It must have been excruciating,” he said. My mother had a lot of trouble with that word when she told me about the conversation later — “especially in his line of work,” the doctor had added. He obviously didn't know my father.

Or maybe he did.

Because he also told her, confidentially, that the main reason for doing the operations separately was to delay my father from returning to work — giving his right hand, at least, a little extra time to recover.

“I know how frustrating it will seem,” he said, “and he's going to convince himself that he's ready to go back before he's really able. But if he isn't very careful, he could do inoperable damage and cripple his hands permanently. If he hasn't already.”

Even with all that going on, Mum was really excited when I told her about the competition. I could tell, because she asked — in Spanish — “Why didn't you tell us about it sooner?”

“I didn't know about it,” I lied, just a little bit. “Miss Vegas entered my poem … I guess she didn't want to get my hopes up until she knew.”

“Well, now she knows.” Mum smiled and ruffled my hair, the way she often did. “You father will be so pleased.”

I looked at her doubtfully, and she caught my drift.

“He's very proud of you,” she said. I must have laughed, because she went on, suddenly serious: “He would never tell you … it's not his way.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was speaking from twenty-two years' experience, and that sigh said it all. “But he is very proud of you.”

“Still, I'm not a boy, so it doesn't really matter, does it?” I know I sounded bitter. I suppose I was — hell, I
know
I was — but there was no point in taking it out on her.

“It
does
matter. To him, it matters very much.” She picked up an apple from the basket in the middle of the table, examined the skin thoughtfully, then placed it back among the rest of the fruit. “You know, you are the only thing that we ever really fight about. He always says, ‘Who will marry a clever woman?' or ‘What kind of a life will she have?' ”

“He makes it sound like some kind of disease!”

“Perhaps, in some ways — in some places — it is.” She sat down at the table, and I took the seat opposite her. “Did you know that your Nonna was very clever? She loved school and she always did really well. And I am told that she played piano like an angel. But in those days …” She paused for a moment, and left the sentence hanging, unfinished.

Nonna Maria? Clever?

My grandmother spent her whole life wearing mourning-black, cooking boatloads of pasta sauce and saying an endless Rosary.

“But she doesn't even own a piano. And she never reads a book, except at church.”

“All that ended years ago. Her father took her out of school when she was fourteen, and a year later she was married.”

“But you said she was clever. Couldn't she have gone on to university, or something?”

“Don't you understand?
No one
from the village went to university. Her father was being criticised for allowing her to go to school as long as she did.”

“But that's so unfair!” I knew what Tanja's answer would be to
that
line. So, obviously, did Mum.

“There has never been a law saying that the world must be fair, Lisdalia. The world just
is,
and we must live in it as it is.”

“Maybe that's how it was. In the Stone Age. But it doesn't
have
to be like that. Not any more.”

She reached out and placed her hand over mine. “It isn't me you have to convince,
querida.
It is your father.”