The Mimosa Tree (7 page)

‘My God, Mira! Look at you!' she says, pushing me away to get a better look. It gives me a chance to look at her too, and I am a little shocked by what I see. It's Siena all right, but not how I remember her. This is a Siena outline, a skeletal version of my usually trim but shapely aunt. Through her loose silk top I can see the outline of ribs and two dumpling-sized breasts. I try to hide my shock by smiling politely, which after my more enthusiastic greeting now seems a little awkward. Typically, Via gets straight to the point. ‘Jesus!' she says. ‘Where are your
breasts?
'

Siena runs her hands down her bony hips. ‘I've lost a bit of weight since I last saw you.'

‘A
bit?
Are you so broke you can't afford
food?
'

Mum pushes past Via to take her turn. She stares at Siena, her face crumpled in sorrow. ‘Are you sick?'

‘No, I'm fine.'

‘Are you hungry? You want me to get you something to eat?' she says as though she could materialise a plate of pasta from the air.

‘That's not necessary, Sofia.'

‘But you look like one of those poor children in Africa.'

‘You look terrible,' agrees Via.

‘You both look well,' says Siena. She hold's Via's gaze steadily, her body frail but unflinching. ‘I see you're not starving.'

‘I take care of myself,' says Via, catching her reflection in a distant mirror. She smiles, clearly satisfied with what she sees.

‘Oh Siena,' says Mum, moving forward now to hug her but her hands pause at Siena's sides like she thinks she might break her. ‘I've been so worried.'

Siena smiles, takes my mother's hand reassuringly. ‘It's not as bad as it looks. Actually, things are going really well.'

‘You're joking, right?' says Via, gesturing as though all the evidence against it is clearly visible in the air around us.

Siena raises her palms. ‘There have been some losses. But it's for the best.'

‘As long as you're happy,' says Mum. ‘That's all that matters.'

Via scoffs.

‘You want coffee?' says Siena motioning us into the house.

‘Yeah!' I say excited about getting a closer look at the mansion I will probably never see again.

Mum looks hopeful, but Via shakes her head. ‘It's getting late.
Some
of us still have husbands to cook for,' she says.

‘Of course,' says Siena. ‘I want you to know, Via, that this is only for a few weeks.'

‘You stay for as long as you need to,' says Mum.

‘I don't intend to be a burden. I have plans. I am not going to outstay my welcome. I promise.'

Via shrugs, unconvinced. She pulls out a cigarette, points at the boxes with it. ‘Which ones are yours?'

‘Just this,' says Siena, and she reaches for a small sports bag.

‘That's
it?
' says Via, cigarette jutting out unlit from the corner of her mouth. ‘Then where is all this stuff going?'

‘I'm leaving it here. I don't want any of it.'

‘Don't be crazy,' says Mum looking nervously at all the boxes in the entrance hall. ‘If it's yours to take, then take it.'

Siena looks around the room, shakes her head sadly. ‘This stuff isn't me anymore. I just want to leave it behind and start again.'

‘Isn't
you?
' says Via. ‘What the hell does
that
mean?'

‘I think she means she doesn't identify with these things anymore,' I say and Via turns on me like an angry hippopotamus.

‘Don't give me any of your smart-arsed university talk, understand? You're not too old to get a smack in the head.'

‘I'm just trying to explain that Siena is saying she needs a fresh start.'

Mum looks confused.

Why is it so difficult for them to grasp a simple concept sometimes? ‘Siena is saying that she wants to...'

‘It's all right, Mira,' says Siena, putting her hand up to stop me. She turns to her sisters, her face calm and charitable. ‘These things belong to Robert now. I don't want to take anything that reminds me of how unhappy I have been.'

‘That is very noble,' says Via flicking ash into the pot plant. ‘But stupid. You think it's going to be that easy to start again?'

‘Maybe not. But I need to start over again, the right way. Robert took a lot from me, but I am taking back everything that's important to me. My health. My heart. My family.' Her hands grip tighter against the straps of her bag. ‘I've missed you,' she says as two fat tears fall mutely down one gaunt cheek. ‘I've missed me.'

‘Siena,'
says Mum, and you can hear the heartbreak in her voice. ‘We've missed you too.' And she pulls Siena into a greedy, floor-shaking hug.

Siena's thin arms wrap around my mother's neck and her
tears fall more freely now. Mum begins to cry and cry and thank God and her mother's soul in heaven for bringing her sister back to her. Via stands off to the side, trying to seem composed and indifferent but I see her wipe something from her eyes. She lights another cigarette and steps into the entrance hall. For a second I think she's going to ignore Siena and start picking up some boxes, but instead she walks over to a portrait of Siena and Robert hanging crookedly on the wall.

‘Okay,' she says speaking to the Siena in the painting rather than the real-life one behind her. ‘You want to start again, then we start again.' And she takes her cigarette and stubs it out on Robert's forehead.

We stare at her in stunned silence.

‘It's time to go home,' she says, her tone softer than I think I've ever heard it. And with arms that seem able to reach around all of us, she herds us back to the car.

‘I can make my own way to the cafeteria,' I say, finding Felicia waiting for me as I exit my last class before lunch. She has the demeanour of a Meerkat; all tiptoes and nose, like she's breathing the air waiting to get my scent.

‘It's no trouble. I finished my last class an hour ago.'

We start to walk, her slightly in front, looking back regularly to make sure I am still following. I think maybe she would feel safer if I just let her hold my hand.

‘Your last class?' I say after a while.

‘Uh-huh. Tuesdays are my short day. Well, technically, I don't have to be here at all. It's just an optional lecture.'

‘Wait a minute. You drive me here every Tuesday and you don't even have classes to go to?'

She smiles. ‘Like I said. It's no problem.'

‘What do you do all day?' I say, aghast that someone could volunteer to spend time here.

She hugs her handbag to her chest and her ponytail bounces behind her as she strides. She is so preppy. The only thing missing is a pink sweater tied around her shoulders. ‘I go to
the library. I read, make notes.'

‘But it's your day off.'

‘Sure,' she laughs. ‘But how else am I going to keep up with all my assignments. I have a three thousand word essay to hand in next week.'

‘Are you serious? Semester only started a few weeks ago.'

‘Don't you have any assignments due soon?'

‘Oh sure,' I say, patting my backpack. ‘But they're just little ones. I have it all under control.'

‘God, you're good. You might have to give me some tips on being organised. I'm always struggling to get things in on time. No matter how early I start them.'

I smile and keep walking but inside my guts are beginning to twist. Truth is I haven't looked at any of my handouts since I stuffed them into my backpack. Somewhere in there are details of assignments, readings and activities that I have been completely avoiding.

‘Just out of curiosity, Felicia. Where is the library?'

She stops walking and thrusts her arm out so that I walk into it. ‘Are you kidding me? You've been here four weeks!'

‘Don't freak,' I say, looking down at my feet because, frankly, I am starting to freak. ‘I just haven't needed it yet.' And that feels true to say because, really, I wouldn't know if I had.

Felicia begins to drag me forcefully down the path.

‘Hang on a minute!' I say, but she does not let go of her grip or reduce her speed. ‘Where are you taking me?'

‘I can't believe you haven't been to the library yet!' she says, with a tone that reminds me of Via. ‘How have you been getting your readings?'

‘My readings?'

She looks at me exasperated. ‘Your readings, Mira. Every tutorial has weekly readings, and they are kept in the library. Either they have introduced some radical new protocol that exempts Bachelor of Education students from having to do what every other student on campus does, or you haven't been doing any work.'

I cringe at this last word.

‘All right, Felicia,' I say, trying to pull my arm from her grip. ‘I am coming with you. Just let go of my hand.' She stops, loosens her grip without letting go. Her expression is angry, like my lack of study is really getting to her.

‘If we get the readings now we can catch up,' she says.

‘We?'

‘I'm serious, Mira. If you haven't been doing any readings then you are falling seriously behind. You need to catch up or you are going to fail your classes!'

‘And that would be a bad thing?'

‘Mira! I'm being serious!'

I rub my eyes.

‘All right. Let's just get the readings and go get some lunch. I'm starving.'

She turns and starts to walk again, this time trusting me to follow. ‘I don't think you'll have time. Not today.'

‘Fine by me. Let's just get the reading things tomorrow then,' and I change direction towards the cafeteria. But like a bat operating on sonar, her hand reaches back and takes a firm grasp of my sleeve.

‘You won't have time to eat. As it is, we've only got an hour
to photocopy four weeks of readings.' She looks up to the sky, puts her palms together like she's praying. Great. So Felicia believes in the god that hovers above us too. ‘Can it be done?' she says.

I look up too and give a little prayer of my own. ‘Please, I'm so hungry,' I say but I am sure neither God nor Felicia have heard me. If only my mother had heard me, then I could be sure a plate of food would materialise instantly.

I follow her up some steps towards a tall, concrete building with brown-glass automatic doors. At the top step she pauses and turns to speak to me, her hands on her hips and her eyes concealed by dark shades. Behind her the doors open as a student approaches and a gust of refrigerated air blows towards us. Everyone is speaking in a hushed tone. Everyone, that is, except Felicia.

‘Do you know which floor has the education books?' she says.

My blank stare matches the state of my brain.

She rolls her eyes, and I am beginning to wonder what it is about me that illicits this response from almost everyone I know. She leads me to a counter where she leans across to speak quietly to a like-wise quietly speaking person, and after a moment a hand gesture communicates the floor number we require. I follow her to the elevator.

She takes me over to a cubicle and forces me to empty the contents of my backpack on the desk. She is not even slightly amused by the amount of chocolate wrappers I need to pick out of the pile. She doesn't even crack a smile when the stale crusts of a sandwich are uncovered under another sheet. Once I've
picked all the rubbish out we get to work unfolding, or more accurately, un-scrunching paper to find my course outlines and identify what I need. Felicia pulls a pen and paper from her own bag and writes down all the titles we need to find. Her handwriting is small and neat, just as I expected. Fortunately, she doesn't feel a need to dot her ‘i' with a little circle or love heart. It's brain-numbing work that personally, I would rather have left undone. After noting the readings of only two of my five classes I begin to appreciate my faith in denial.

‘How do you stay so calm?' says Felicia, looking up from her list.

‘This is just how I do things,' I say stuffing the sheets she has already gone through back into my bag.

She nods like she understands. ‘I always have to work so hard. You must be really smart.'

‘I don't think it's got anything to do with smart,' I say, quickly filing an assignment description with a deep shove. ‘It's more a matter of not caring.'

She looks up at me questioningly. ‘You don't like to study?'

‘Whatever gave you that idea?' I say, waving some crumbled sheets at her and she laughs.

‘But you did so well at school. Via tells me you were top of your class.'

I sigh as I remember high school. It was only a few months ago, but already it feels like years. ‘It was different at school. I just did what they told me to do.' I shuffle through some more papers, my head swimming in information and deadlines for activities I don't even understand the basics of.

‘It takes a while to get used to things here,' she says.

‘I'm not really sure I want to.'

‘What do you mean?' she says looking up from her writing.

I sit down at the table and brush some hair from my eyes. ‘Do you want to be a lawyer?' I ask her, and just by the widening in her eyes I can already tell what the answer is going to be.

‘I couldn't imagine doing anything else.'

‘Then you're lucky.'

‘You don't want to be a teacher?'

‘I've never really thought about it.'

She puts her pen down to give me her full attention. ‘Via told me you've wanted to be a teacher since you were little.'

‘Via says a lot of things. Most of them should be ignored.'

‘So you never wanted to be a teacher?'

‘Not really.'

‘What about art? Do you like that?'

‘I suppose. But what good is that?' I take the papers from her hands and begin to shove everything back into my bag. ‘This is stupid. I'll just have to get by without doing the readings.'

‘Oh come on, Mira,' she says patting my hand. ‘It's not that bad. You probably just have to spend the weekend reading.' But she doesn't try and stop me. ‘If you don't like what you're studying, why don't you just quit? Take some time to think about what you really want to do?'

‘Yeah right!' I laugh. ‘Have you met my family?'

‘You don't think they would understand?'

‘I'm the first person in this blood line to make it to high school let alone university. I'd be safer telling them I'd killed the Pope.'

‘But if you really explained it to them, surely they would
want you to do something you loved?'

‘Felicia, I don't know what planet your parents are from, but on my parents' planet, what I want is the least important thing in the world.'

I pick up my bag, walk towards the elevator and she follows silently. Once inside, she leans back against the wall and looks at me. ‘What would you do? If it was up to you and not your parents?' she says.

She is looking at me hopefully, like she is sure there is an answer to this question. I let my fingers trace over an anti-nukes symbol carved into the elevator wall. What am I supposed to say? Ms Optimism is never going to appreciate the view that it's just too painful to want or need anything from a future I don't believe exists.

‘I think that's the problem,' I say, picking my words carefully. ‘I don't really see the point in doing anything.'

She lets this go without comment, and we walk silently out of the elevator and out the library doors. The sounds and sights of the real world are an assault to my deadened senses and I blink tiredly against the sun.

Felicia touches me lightly on the shoulder. ‘It's not hopeless, Mira.'

I shuffle my feet on the pavement. ‘Yeah, whatever. I'll catch up somehow.'

‘I mean the world. There's a lot of good things happening, a lot of reasons to believe that there is something to look forward to.' She smiles. ‘You'll find something you like to do.'

‘Sure,' I say forcing myself to smile back. ‘I think it's time for my next class.'

‘Of course. I'll meet you at the car. Three o'clock?'

‘Thanks.' And she gives me a final encouraging squeeze before turning and walking away.

I watch her click her way down the steps. When she is out of sight, I pick up my bag and start to head back down the main pathway towards the education building. Our talk is weighing heavily on me and I feel exhausted, like I've lost blood. Study I can't stand, stupid family, looming Apocalypse; it all just gets too much sometimes. Felicia's delusions about everything turning out fine might work for her but I'm not naive enough to be comforted by mere hope.

When I notice a gravel track that leads through a grove of golden trees I take it. I let myself drift along this new path, stepping over autumn leaves, following the sounds of birds to a lake with a wide, grassed clearing full of sunlight. I sit down, take a moment to suck it all in. All I can hear is the rustle of leaves and the frustrated leg rubbings of cicadas.

Now that I am here I can't leave, and it's not so much a decision but more an overwhelming lethargy. I feel a little guilty that Felicia is waiting for me, but I figure as long as I am back at the car on time she will never know, and everyone can go on thinking that things are exactly as they should be. I lean back on my elbows, and watch a family of ducks making their way to the water, quacking warnings to each other and casting worried looks in my direction. When they reach the muddy edge, the first duck quacks the others through before jumping in itself. Around me dried gum leaves lift and tumble, above me birds weave confused paths across the sky. I let my eyelids close against the hot sun and all the thoughts I would rather not be having.

‘You like ducks?' says a voice at my shoulder, and I spin round, clutching at my chest like an Italian grandmother.

It's Student-number-eight, from my painting class. Even with the sunglasses, there is no mistaking the hair and the trench coat, and that disturbing ability to look extremely comfortable in uncomfortable situations. I don't know whether to sit up, or stay half reclined, as he leans over me, waiting for an answer to a question I have already forgotten.

‘Der-
ucks,
' he says again, creating new syllables like he's talking to a foreigner. ‘Do you like them?'

‘I've never eaten one,' I say stupidly before realising it was a question of aesthetics not gastronomy. Curse my family and its constant focus on all things food! I'm ruined for normal society.

His lips pinch to the right in a half smile. ‘Are you planning to? Should I warn these guys maybe?' he says nodding over to the ducks now swimming happily on the lake.

Immediately I start remembering the day Via's husband, Zito, caught a duck at our local pond. I can still picture it kicking as Zito held its head in a bucket of water, and then Via and Mum chatting happily in a cloud of steam as they plucked it clean. I remember the sick smell of boiled feathers and shudder.

‘They're safe with me,' I say finally.

‘I'm sure that's a relief to them,' he says sitting down. ‘Wouldn't want to leave those ducklings orphaned.'

He pushes his fringe from his face then pulls a red tin from an inside pocket of his coat. Resting the tin on his knee, he takes out a pinch of very green looking tobacco and begins to
roll it into a cigarette. ‘So you're wagging?'

‘I guess.'

‘Nice day for it,' he says, looking around. ‘Nice place for it.'

‘Are you wagging too?'