Chapter 30
the thirtieth chapter
MARCO
The realisation dawns on Ma’s face.
“September third,” she beams. “You came to see me on your birthday.”
“I tried to come a few birthdays ago,” I admit. “But I wussed out.”
“Nothing wussy about keeping yourself safe,” she says. “Wish I had half the guts you do, son.”
I’m not sure how much time we have.
Could be minutes, could be hours.
As if reading my mind, she turns.
“He'll be down at the pub until closing time. Feeling sorry for himself, no doubt.”
“Ma, this is Amos, by the way.”
I give him a look that says all the things I wish I could say.
Thank god you're here.
I'm so sorry you had to see that.
Are you okay?
Can we stay a little longer?
I love you so damn much.
She holds his hand in hers.
“Amos, I'm Louise. Mark's mum.” Then a pause as she remembers. “Marco. Marco's mum.”
“Lovely to meet you, Louise.”
His smile is kind and warm.
“Sorry about earlier,” she apologises. “Not the hello you expected, I guess.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that we expected even worse.
Or that Sam has practiced countless times with me.
She’s taught me how to create a shield around myself during moments like this.
Even though it can only do so much.
I wish I could teach her some of the stuff I’ve learned in therapy.
But more than that, I just wanna get her out of here.
It’s so tempting to scoop her up and carry her out to the truck.
She’d yell and kick up a fuss, but at least she’d be safe.
I know she won't leave easily.
They’ve been married for thirty something years.
A lifetime of fear fueled excuses.
Mum starts to gather pieces of broken bottle from the floor.
But Amos insists on taking care of it.
“I’m sorry about all this.”
Typical Ma, always one to apologise profusely.
She seems overwhelmed, attempting to make the cluttered room more welcoming.
“Sorry, son. Ignore the mess. I would’ve tidied up if I'd known.”
You wouldn't have tidied for me, I think fondly.
You're embarrassed that Amos is seeing it.
She brushes a few stray papers off the edge of a table.
But it doesn’t change much.
The air carries a familiar, stagnant smell.
The stench of my childhood.
Cigarette smoke.
Urine on the bathroom floor and who knows where else.
Unwashed dishes that have started to grow fur on the rim.
Mouse droppings along the skirting boards.
Beer stains on the carpet.
Empty bottles on the mantle, the table, the floor.
Body odour has seeped into the couch over many sweltering Queensland summers.
The windows are closed despite the lack of air con, curtain rod still bent at one end.
The back door is open, at least that brings in a breeze occasionally.
But the flies and roaches have made themselves at home here.
No wonder I was covered in bite marks as a kid.
◆◆◆
I recognise the signs too easily.
She’s drowning in depression.
No money to see a doctor, either.
Every penny gambled or poured down his throat.
But the way she looks at me, her eyes have barely left my face since we got here.
They hold so much love it’s almost painful to see it.
I try not to look at the gap where those two teeth used to be, but she notices of course.
“Tooth fairy still hasn't been,” she laughs.
I smile awkwardly.
“Waiting for that bitch to leave money under my pillow.”
“Ma…”
“Could have bought you a birthday present if I'd had enough coins to spare.”
“Ma, it’s okay.”
She looks as though she might cry.
Amos whispers in my ear.
“Be right back.”
He sprints out to the truck.
None of it seems real, being here again, stepping back into the nightmare.
Worn furniture, covered in ugly faded orange sheets.
This dim shadowy room with that same crooked light fitting.
The one I spent countless nights staring at every time dad raised his voice.
Walking through the door took every ounce of courage I have.
Being within spitting distance of that feral wanker almost killed me.
But seeing her again is worth it.
Amos returns, holding the second melon.
“Oh love, did you really?”
Her lip begins to tremble.
Now she’s crying for real.
“You remember that day?”
“Of course I remember.”
I hold her gently as her tears dampen my shirt.
I’m counting the years in my head.
Ten... eleven... almost twelve.
Stress has aged her more than time itself.
It’s impossible to fathom that the woman in front of me is only forty eight.
Her face is textured and rough.
Her hands too.
She looks even older than Mrs Ambrose, who was in her sixties last time I was here.
“I’ve never seen you with silver hair before,” I smile quietly.
“Oh,” she shrugs. “That just happened over time.”
But… she’s really here.
And so am I.
“Can't believe we’re in the same room,” I whisper.
“Neither can I,” she grins. “Happy birthday, my boy.”
◆◆◆
She clears a space on the couch, shoving a mound of laundry onto the floor.
The pile has always been there.
I remember when I was a kid, having to rummage through it.
I’d sniff things to find a clean outfit to wear to school each day.
The clothes are always dumped in a heap.
Never on hangers or in drawers.
No wonder I became such a neat freak, I smile.
But none of that matters anymore.
Only she matters.
I need to soak in every minute while I can.
Her movements are stiff.
That bad leg makes her favour one side, shuffling back and forth to the kitchen.
I doubt she has visitors often.
For obvious reasons.
“Is Mrs Ambrose home?” I ask.
“No, love. She doesn't live in Jundah anymore. Gone to stay with her daughter.”
“Where?”
“In Barcaldine."
Mum must be lonely without her.
I feel a hollowness in my gut, knowing that our kind elderly neighbour has gone.
I’ve been sending letters to her address for years.
Have they arrived?
Again, she seems to know where my mind has wandered.
“She still owns the house. I look after the garden for her.
Feed the chickens, water the roses, that sort of thing.
One of the lads from across the river does the lawns every once in a while.
Wish he could do ours. It's a bloody mess. Been waiting for your dad to clean up his shit, but he never does.”
Drawing back the curtains, she shoves the window open until it creaks.
Pale afternoon sunlight pours into the room.
Illuminated dust motes swirl in thick spirals.
“And I check her mail box, of course.”
“You do?”
Her eyes are warm as she speaks.
“I've kept them all, Marco. Every single letter.”
She limps across the room and opens the narrow door of the linen cupboard.
Folded fabric and thread spools are stacked in old biscuit tins.
Yellowed sewing patterns have been bundled carefully together.
She hauls a blue laundry hamper toward me.
Peeling back the towels, she reveals her secret stash.
More than one hundred and thirty envelopes.
Stuffed with letters that younger me has written over the last decade or so.
One almost every month for eleven years.
She's tied each bundle with thread.
Holding the first one in my lap, I still remember the day I posted it.
I’d only been in Brisbane a couple of weeks.
I was missing her so much.
Hadn’t written during those early months in Longreach.
Less chance of being tracked down in the city though.
More than one post office.
I marvel at my messy teenage handwriting.
But I avoid reading what it says.
My leaving note lays half folded between stacks two and three.
The one I wrote the morning I ran away.
I can’t handle looking at it, so I hand it to Amos.
“As much as I’ve missed you,” she says, her voice already trembling. “And I really have missed you so much... I was so proud of you for what you did.”
The floor curves slightly beneath me.
Perhaps I’m just dizzy.
It’s all a bit overwhelming.
“You got free, Marco. Something I've never had the courage to do.”
She smiles through the pain.
I hold her hand in mine.
“Yes I cried for you, sweetheart. But my tears weren’t just sad.”
“No?”
“No. I was relieved that one of us had the chance to live a better life.”
I can’t find the words.
She cups my face the way she used to do when I was small.
“If you’d stayed here, you might have ended up a very different man.”
Her eyes shine with pride.
We both know it’s true.
“But look at you now, my beautiful boy.”
That’s when I break.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for leaving you here with him. I just couldn’t…”
“I know,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry too. Should have left him before I got pregnant.”
Her eyes drop to the floor.
“I just didn’t know where to go. And now it's too late.”
“It's not too late, Mum. If you want to leave him…”
◆◆◆
She pretends she hasn’t heard me and wanders off to the kitchen.
Soon I hear a clattering of plates and forks.
“It’s your special day,” she calls over her shoulder. “Made you a cake.”
But how did she…?
“Didn't think you'd be here to share it with me though, did I? Oh wait... can't forget the sprinkles. You loved these sprinkles when you were little. Used to tip them in your mouth straight from the container.”
I help her carry the plates into the living room.
We perch them on the coffee table, next to a pile of junk mail and knitting needles.
The clutter is so overstimulating, but I’m doing my best to ignore it.
Because her love, and my love for her, are more important.
Simple. Small. Homemade.
A round sponge with chocolate frosting.
A scattering of cocoa sprinkles across the top.
I’ve seen some damn fancy cakes as an event planner, worth hundreds of dollars.
But this is the most beautiful one I’ve ever laid eyes on.
The most meaningful.
“Just a packet mix from the roadhouse,” she says. And I don't have a candle.”
She never has a candle.
We have a tradition though.
“You can still make a wish. Here, blow on my finger."
I used to do this when I was young.
Always the same ‘finger wish’. Every year.
I’d wish that me and mum could live at the beach.
One time, I gave up on that dream and wished that I could hold the galaxy in my arms.
Looking down at Amos’s drawing on my wrist, that one kind of came true.