Chapter 25 #2
‘I came out at my brother’s wedding,’ I tell Siobhan.
‘My parents could have cared what everyone else thought, but they didn’t.
All they cared about was me.’ My laser vision tunnels into my mother’s eyes.
‘Mum gave me an extra big piece of wedding cake and told me nothing could change how much she cares for me,’ I lie.
I shift to my father, whose mouth is hanging open slightly.
‘Dad walked up to me, and I thought he was going to hit me, but he didn’t – he would never hit me, would you, Dad?
He said, “You’re my son, and I love you no matter what. ” And he hugged me.’
My father looks at the floor.
Siobhan’s teared up. ‘Oh darlin’, that’s so beautiful, honestly,’ she says, beaming at Mum and Dad.
‘I worked in a regional hospital for a while and I know how tough some of those country boys have it when they can’t face coming out.
Honestly, if I could tell you the things I’ve seen, it’d break your heart. What wonderful parents you both are.’
My mother’s smile is as frozen as her eyes. ‘He’s a special boy,’ she tells Siobhan. ‘I – uh – need a coffee. I’ll be back.’
She flees my cubicle without a look back.
I expect my father to follow, but he doesn’t. He sinks into the chair where Hammer spent the night. His eyes are welled up, hands clasped over his lap, like he’s at a funeral. As Siobhan does my obs and chats with me, he glances at the chart beside my bed and taps away on his phone.
‘Blood oxygen sats are at ninety-four,’ Siobhan says, her demeanour much chirpier than when she walked in. ‘They want it back to ninety-seven at least. Let’s check again soon. If you’re back to normal, you’ll be free to go, darlin.’
I thank Siobhan. She leaves.
The air is heavy between me and Dad. My mother hasn’t returned. He puts his hand on the white sheet on my mattress, rubbing his hairy knuckles against the fabric like he’s summoning a memory.
‘I bought you a little plush soccer ball when you were born. It was in the St John of God Hospital in Geraldton. You won’t remember.
When you were toddling, in your little walker with the wheels on it, I’d put the soccer ball in front of you and say, “Figlio mio, veni ca!” And you’d flap your hands and scoot over and kick it.
’ His eyes are shiny, fond of me in a way I don’t remember seeing before.
‘I had a plan. You were meant to be my soccer boy.’
‘Huh? I never knew that.’
‘I wanted Robbie to be my footy boy. I wanted my firstborn to play footy and you were going to play soccer.’ He splays his hands at me in the hospital bed, like I’m a punctured soccer ball.
‘Then Robbie liked soccer more than footy. And you didn’t like any sports.
I tried to make you do them and you wouldn’t have a bar of it. ’
A vague image tugs at me: Dad pressuring me to join some Auskick thing in year one and me clinging to his leg and refusing to go onto the oval.
‘It doesn’t matter anymore,’ he says, waving a hand that crumples into his lap, sad and weak, not a fist. ‘The dream has already gone skewiff. You and Robbie were both meant to live in Gero, have wives and kids, work for the family business. We’d play Briscola after work, sink beers, my footy boy and my soccer boy.
We’d have pasta on Saturday nights. No matter what life threw at me, I thought that dream was simple enough to come true. ’
‘Dad, I’m not dead,’ I say. ‘The pasta night could still happen. But one day I’ll bring a boy home, not a girl. If you’re never gonna let that happen, tell me now, and we’ll both have to move on with our lives.’
Dad looks at me all teary again. I don’t understand why he’s so upset: this whole walk down memory lane, he’s looked like he’s been told I’m dying.
Dad stands up from his chair and sweeps me into a massive hug, his salt-and-pepper whiskers scratching my cheek. ‘You are my son, and I do love you,’ he says, echoing my false words to Siobhan earlier. ‘I’m sorry I hit you at Robbie’s wedding. It was a shock.’
I put my arm around Dad’s back and press my weight against his, feeling the strength of his body against me, warm and comforting and for once, not quickly withdrawing. I blink a sting out of my eyes.
Dad pats me firmly on the back. ‘So, tell me. How long do you have?’
I pull back. ‘Huh? In here? Just until my oxygen sats are normal …’
Dad stands up, clasping his hands in front of him in his funeral pose again. ‘No, I mean – how long do you have left …’ he says, struggling with the last two words ‘… to live?’
I blink back at him, utterly confused. ‘Um? I hope, like, until I’m eighty or ninety, I guess? What … did they tell you something I don’t know?’
Dad taps the chart beside my bed. ‘I saw this on your list of regular medications you’re taking. Truvada. I googled it.’ He looks away from me. ‘It’s a HIV medication. Why didn’t you tell us you had AIDS?’
Oh my fucking God.
‘Dad, no – you got the wrong end of the stick,’ I correct him. ‘Truvada’s used to prevent HIV infection, too. It’s called PrEP. We take it so we can have sex without a condom. I’m totally fine. And even if I wasn’t, HIV isn’t a death sentence anymore … they can treat it these days …’
‘Oh, thank God.’ Dad’s wiping his eyes, his shoulders shaking with relief. ‘Thank God.’
‘Wait, did you only apologise because you thought I was dying?’
Dad winces. ‘S’pose so. But screw it, okay, fine. Life’s too short. You can bring a boy home for pasta one day, if that’s what you want.’
I never thought I’d live to hear him say those words. I look at my father’s ruddy, stubbled face and see him meeting my gaze, like we are finally reaching an understanding.
‘Thank you, Dad.’
‘I wish I knew why you ended up like that. I’m sorry if I did something wrong.’
‘You didn’t, Dad. Just how I am. Roll of the dice. I didn’t make a choice.’
‘Right. I know. Robbie’s always saying that.’
We fall into a silence that isn’t completely uncomfortable. I’m kinda touched that Robbie has my back even when I’m not in the room. I decide to ask him to watch a game of footy with me next time we’re in the same town.
‘What happened to your hands?’ Dad asks eventually, touching his own knuckles by way of asking about my bloodied ones.
‘I snapped at footy training. Had some kinda meltdown. Punched a wall.’
‘Huh. Always the quiet ones you gotta watch out for, ay?’ Dad whistles, looking me up and down like he’s meeting me for the first time. ‘Well, that was stupid, wasn’t it? Bet your hands hurt. Bloody stronzo.’
‘Yep. And I’ve done my dash at that club because of it.
Sucks cos I really liked footy, Dad. I don’t care if you make fun of me for it.
God, those times when I was a kid, I wanted to be one of those footy boys, even then.
They were cool and confident and they had fun.
But they always gave me a hard time and it would’ve been hell – no, impossible – trying to fit in with them back then.
I knew that. Finally got my shit together in my twenties and now I’ve even fucked that up. Guess it wasn’t meant to be.’
Dad folds his arms, a cumulonimbus expression storming onto his face. ‘Well, that’s a bit stiff. Footy club shouldn’t kick you out for that. Plenty worse behaviour goes on at every club I’ve ever known.’
‘They didn’t kick me out for it. I quit. I can’t show my face there again.’
‘Why the bloody hell not?’
‘Cos they’ve seen me act like an idiot.’
‘Yes,’ Dad says matter-of-factly. ‘You were an idiot. You behaved like a complete stupido. But so does every boofhead at any sports club anywhere. You think you’re better than the other boys there?’
‘No, I—’
‘Exactly. Because you’re not. You fucked up the same way any other bloke fucks up, bud. Just rock up at training next time and put your head down and carry on. Don’t let your team down, and don’t be a coward and quit something you love. I raised you better than that.’
I swallow. ‘Okay. Okay Dad. I won’t.’
My father nods with satisfaction. It’s a rare time he’s ever given me life advice that actually helped, and I think he knows it.
‘So, you enjoying the Dockers season, then?’ he asks. ‘We’re a bee’s dick from making the finals.’
‘Oh,’ I say, wincing. ‘I don’t barrack for Freo.’
Dad’s face is immediately thunderous again. ‘What? My own son? Who do you barrack for, then? Don’t you dare say—’
‘I go for the Eagles, Dad,’ I out myself.
Dad bursts into this furious laugh. ‘Ya fucken kidding me?!’ he roars.
‘You finally get into footy, and you go and barrack for the wrong team! What a little shit. I hate Eagles supporters.’ He grins, even though he’s genuinely pissed.
‘Guess I gotta make an exception now, don’t I?
At least your mob are having a shithouse season. Did you watch last week’s game?’
And then, for about ten minutes, I talk about football with my father.
My mother returns with a tray of coffees and baked goods from the hospital cafeteria, plus some car magazine for my father but, noticeably, no Archie comic for me. I guess this means my outburst is going to be punished: no more gifts for Zeke.
My father takes her return as a sign he’s free to leave me for a toilet break – resulting in me and my mother falling into a lukewarm silence.
I want badly to have the same unravelling with her that I had with my father, but he only let down his guard when he thought I was dying.
My mother never thought I had a death sentence, and even if she did, I’m not sure she’d let down her guard.
I never saw her cry when my father had cancer.
Whatever made her the way she is happened a long time ago.
I don’t think she could change if she wanted to.