Chapter 30 #2
Because when I hold him, yeah… it does feel like an armful of stars.
But this time as I blow, my wish is for Ma.
◆◆◆
“I make a cake every year,” she tells me. “And I don’t give that bastard a crumb.”
We glance toward the door, even though Dad isn’t there.
It’s a habit, I guess.
“That means more than you know, Mum.”
I stand to give her a kiss on the cheek, as Amos cuts the cake into pieces.
Between the three of us, it disappears within minutes.
We slice the watermelon into wedges on the messy counter, passing it around.
“Always tastes better on birthdays.”
She says it casually, as though she has the luxury of eating it all the time.
Then she nods toward my hand.
Oops.
I placed it on Amos's knee without thinking.
“So he’s your fella?”
I sit up straight, rubbing the back of my neck awkwardly.
We give each other a coy look.
“He is.”
“Proud to be,” Amos smiles.
“More than just friends, I take it?”
“Yeah. We are.”
I kiss him gently.
And not for show.
But because I’ve never known what it’s like to be myself under this roof.
No more hiding.
She pats my arm affectionately.
“I’m your mother, sweetheart. I had an inkling you were gay. And I think it’s wonderful.”
Has she really suspected all this time?
“Knowing that you’re being loved and cared for is all I could ever want.”
My ears have turned pink.
“You mentioned in your letter a couple of months ago that you’d fallen in love. But you never said any more than that. So I wasn’t sure who.”
She smiles kindly at the two of us.
“Speaking of love, I have something I want to show you.”
◆◆◆
We follow her down the hallway to my old bedroom.
I fend off the wave of fear that surges.
Because memory has latched on to every square inch.
It all gives me the ick.
Every door frame, every dead potplant, every scent and texture.
You're not a defenseless kid anymore, I tell myself.
You're not trapped here anymore.
He's scared of you now.
He buggered off like the chicken shit he is.
Has this room always been so tiny?
There’s my little bed, in the same corner by the window.
The window where I pressed my nose against the glass countless times to see the sky.
Midnight was my favourite hour.
Midnight often meant that my dad was drunk enough to sleep.
Or pass out in a ditch somewhere. Same thing.
When the stars appeared, it meant that I was almost safe again.
When the stars appeared, the noise softened.
So darkness became a friend.
And so did the river.
In many ways, that river was my real home.
More of a haven than this bedroom had ever been.
And now it’s the only space inside this house that is truly hers.
The one room Ray avoids.
Something else has changed.
No more stripey tattered blanket.
Just a black quilt.
Black, the colour of mourning.
No more cereal box kangaroos on the wall.
They hopped away as soon as they got the chance.
Can’t blame them.
◆◆◆
“Your little friends are hiding back here,” she says.
Her voice is hushed as though it’s a secret.
She's pasted my roos on the back of the door.
No more stolen duct tape from the shed.
“They keep me company when I'm sewing.”
She flips the quilt over to reveal an intricate pattern of stars and moons.
“That's gorgeous,” Amos exclaims.
Beaming up at him, she pulls him in for a hug.
They’re so adorable together.
Purple and blue, silver and black.
Each constellation, created by hand.
Every stitch, impossibly neat and precise.
I lean close to admire the delicate swirls and swishes she’s added for effect.
“Ma, this is incredible,” I smile. “You made this entire thing?”
“Took me years,” she sighs. “Mrs Ambrose started slipping fabric and thread into my handbag or pockets whenever I went over there. She said a project would do me good.”
I run a careful hand along the curve of the moon.
“Son, you always said the stars were a blanket, keeping you and me safe.”
If only that had been enough, I muse.
Her smile disguises her fear, just as it always has.
“Why do you keep this hidden, face down on the bed?” I ask.
But as soon as I’ve uttered the words, I know.
Dad likes to burn or damage things that matter to people, just to get a rise.
He likes to watch us cry.
“Learned the hard way not to show him when I care about something.”
It takes me a moment to realise that she isn't just talking about quilts.
I matter to her.
I’m what she cares about.
And he knows it.
That creep hurt his own kid to get a reaction from her.
To control her.
“Surprised he hasn't trashed my garden yet. Have to keep convincing him that it's a hardship for me to be out there, toiling away in the heat. Heaven forbid he finds out that it's the one place I feel happy.”
“You have a garden now, Mum?”
The only thing I’ve ever seen growing in the yard are weeds.
Lawnmowers are for rich people, she once told me.
When I was small, I desperately wanted one.
I’d drag a big stick through the weeds, making engine sounds.
Told myself we’d get one when dad hit the jackpot one day.
Maybe then I’d be rich enough to swim in the pool with the other kids.
I peer through the curtains to take a look.
“Not out there,” Mum says. “That mess is his problem. My little paradise is out the back.”