13
H OW surreal. I’m sandwiched between my grandmother and Paul GD Lightwood in his car.
His hand rests on the gearstick beside my right knee, and on the underside of his forearm I see the faint blue of his vein.
The glass of wine I had with lunch must have really gone to my head because I’d love to lay my fingertips against it just to feel his pulse.
Nonna’s handbag is sticking into my hip, so I shift slightly towards Paul. It doesn’t go unnoticed.
‘Catarina!’ Nonna hisses under breath.
‘What?’
‘You know what,’ she says in Italian.
‘I honestly don’t, Nonna.’
‘Be like your mama, not your Nonna,’ she says. ‘First education, then babies.’
‘Oh, for the love of God,’ I say in English.
Paul clears his throat. He grips the steering wheel with both hands. ‘What’s up?’ he says.
‘Believe me, you don’t want to know,’ I say.
‘I was just telling my granddaughter to make more of an effort to help her mother.’ She smacks my leg. ‘I’m sorry, it’s so rude, I sometimes can’t find the right words in English so it’s easier to speak in my language.’
‘That’s fine,’ he says. ‘I think it’s so cool you’re all bilingual. I bet it comes in handy when you don’t want people to know what you’re saying.’ He’s barely hiding a smirk.
We arrive at Nonna’s and as usual she refuses to let me walk her to the door. Instead, she kisses me on both cheeks. ‘He’s a good person, I can tell,’ she tells me in Italian.
‘He works for Dad. It has absolutely nothing to do with me.’
‘You think I’m stupid, that I don’t see things? I see everything, Caterina.’ She taps me on my temple. ‘Use your brain. Remember your future. Now tell him I’m saying, “study hard.”’
I turn to Paul to translate.
‘She says you’re an arsehole.’
‘Catarina!’ Nonna shrieks. ‘Paulo, I said no such thing. Thank you for driving me home. If you’re smart, you’ll let this one walk.’ She shuts the door and skulks to her front door. She turns to wave, and that’s Nonna done and dusted for the evening.
‘Man, that was a first,’ says Paul. ‘I’m going to have to learn Italian, aren’t I?’
‘You don’t trust my translation skills?’
‘That would be a no. Want to enlighten me?’
‘Now, that would be a no,’ I say. ‘It’s boring anyway, “work hard, Catarina, remember your future, Catarina.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. As if I’m not.’
‘Honestly? Be glad someone gives a shit,’ says Paul. He’s holding the steering wheel in both hands and I see his jaw clenching.
‘There’s giving a shit and there’s driving me crazy,’ I mutter. ‘Bring on next year when I don’t have to hear this again and again and again times infinity.’
As the road turns towards Batter’s Cove late afternoon sun fills the car. I adjust the visor, blinded.
‘So, you’re really going for medicine?’
‘Or law, I haven’t decided.’
‘Isn’t being a doctor or a lawyer completely opposite?’
‘I haven’t figured that part out yet; I just need to get good enough marks for both.’ I shrug. ‘I don’t have a choice, really.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t have a choice? Sounds like you have all the choices.’
‘No, I meant I have to get good marks, so I have a choice. It’s a bit complicated, but basically the better my marks, the more options I’ll have when it comes down to working out what course I’ll do.’
‘I might be a tradie, but I know how uni selections work,’ he says. ‘But why law or medicine? Is that what you even want?’
‘I want the marks,’ I say. ‘I’m smart, I might not be one of those super-intelligent robots at school that could easily get into medicine without even trying, but I know how to work hard.
Law’s been on my radar forever, but then my careers teacher said I could probably go for medicine.
I don’t know. It’s full on. Be glad you’re a tradie; you don’t have to think about all this stuff, there’s no pressure on you. ’
‘Sorry, what? You don’t know anything about me or my life. You’re a kid, you don’t even know a hint of pressure.’
‘I’m a kid?’ I turn to glare at him. ‘You’re what, three years older than me? Good one, Grandpa.’
We pull into the driveway and Paul yanks on the handbrake.
‘Your castle, principessa . Tell your old man I’ll see him tomorrow and thank your mum for lunch for me.’ He stares straight ahead through the windscreen.
‘It’s prin-ci-pessa,’ I say as I leave his car, even though he absolutely nailed the pronunciation.