Living on Hope Street

by Demet Divaroren

  How could I be so stupid? she thought. How could I leave them alone today? Dean would never stay away! She ran faster, her heart racing. It was only when she reached home that she realised the ambulance was parked in front of Mr Bailey’s house. She doubled over, struggling for breath.

  She straightened, rushed up her porch steps. The house was quiet. Kane was pacing the lounge room; his hand on his head. He stopped when he saw her.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mum? You’re shaking.’

  Angie put the ice cream bag on the bench top. ‘Nothing, I’m okay.’

  ‘Is Dad hanging around?’ he whispered.

  ‘No. My hand’s cramping a bit, that’s all.’ She lined up three bowls for the ice cream. ‘Sam, honey, guess what I’ve got?’ Her head swung around the room. She spotted his curled form under the dining table. ‘Sam?’

  Kane lowered his voice. ‘He freaked out when he saw the ambulance. Worse than last time. I couldn’t get him to come out.’

  Angie rushed toward him. ‘Sam? Baby? You okay?’ She crouched in front of the table, touched his sweaty back.

  ‘… they gonna take me away … Mum … gone hospital …’ he mumbled to the wall.

  ‘Sam? Baby, it’s alright, I’m here. Everything is okay. See? I’m here.’

  He shook his head and Angie’s heart broke at the sight of his tiny clenched body. She crawled under the table, hugging him from behind. Her plastered hand throbbed, and she showered the side of his face with kisses. ‘Mummy’s okay. Everything is okay. See?’

  He turned around. Tears and snot streaked his face. He leaned his head under her chin and hugged her, moulding his body to hers. She inhaled the apple scent of his hair as tears wet her cheeks. In court today she’d dared to imagine a new start for her and the boys, a second chance at life without fear. What a fool she’d been. Her scars had bubbled to the surface at the sight of that ambulance. Dean would always be present in his silence, in her pain, in her children’s eyes. Sam breathed into her chest in small hiccups. He was broken, and this was her biggest punishment.

  ‘It’s okay, baby. Shhh.’

  Kane made loud swallowing noises and she didn’t have to turn around to know that he was tunnelling through the ice cream. ‘Mmm …’ He played it up for Sam. ‘Yum … Cherry Ripe!’

  When he was young, Kane used to lie in her arms, touch his chest and say he had two hearts, one for him and one for Mummy. He’d wipe Angie’s tears and jump on the bed, his skinny arms outstretched like Superman. ‘Don’t worry, Mummy, when I grow up, I’m gonna be big and strong and Daddy will never hurt you!’ She was losing him. She saw it in his eyes, in the way he stood; his anger was too hot, she was scared it would burn him.

  ‘Hey bud, think they put extra cherries in it!’ Kane said.

  Sam stirred in Angie’s arms.

  ‘It’s got double chocolate,’ she whispered. ‘Just like they showed on the commercial.’

  He lifted his head and peeked over Angie’s shoulder.

  ‘You better hurry,’ she whispered, kissing his ear.

  He giggled and rubbed his earlobe, jumping over Angie and crawling into the lounge. Kane hugged the tub to his chest and Sam chased him around the room. She watched her boys play-wrestle and unease spread within her. Sam needed help. The school social worker recommended he see a professional to complement the art therapy that Angie planned to help him with at home. She got a referral to a one-year counselling program with the Childhood Centre but she was put on a four-month waiting list. She had to find a private practice in the meantime. She had to find a job. She’d spoken to her agency to see if she could work in the office to answer phone calls until her hand got better but they didn’t want to hear it. Maybe Mrs Aslan could pull some strings? She worked part time cleaning office buildings. If she got Angie a job, the boys would be alone most nights when she worked till early morning but without it she wouldn’t be able to afford therapy for Sam.

  Angie lay underneath the table. How could she protect her kids if she wasn’t at home? How could she have a home if she wasn’t at work? She wished she could build large walls around her children that nobody could scale.

  She closed her eyes and listened to Sam’s giggles and Kane’s teasing, the weight of failure heavy on her shoulders.

  Mr Bailey’s wife died yesterday. Umama lit a candle for her soul. I said a prayer for her and my ugogo and cried in my room. When the ambulance took her away, Mr Bailey started walking behind it but the boy next door pulled him back. I couldn’t eat a lot at dinner; the chicken was mushy in my mouth.

  ‘Where is the spirit world, Umama?’

  She wiped her mouth. ‘It is next to God, Gugu, in a place we can’t see.’

  Ugogo was there, and so was Mr Bailey’s wife. ‘What do they do in the spirit world?’

  ‘They dance and sing and play basketball.’ Sicelo rolled his eyes. ‘No one knows what they do, silly.’ He laughed and tapped my shoulder.

  ‘Sicelo.’ Ubaba shook his head. ‘It’s not good to mock your sister or the afterlife.’ He patted my hand. ‘As long as we are alive, Gugu, our dead live in our words and stories.’

  Ubaba always said that words had magic. A good story could change someone’s heart. ‘I am writing down all of Ugogo’s stories so I never forget. My teacher says that I can be a storyteller one day.’

  Umama smiled until her face had a lot of lines.

  ‘That’s my girl!’ Ubaba slapped the ground. ‘We are very lucky to be in a country that values words. They don’t put you in prison or do worse for speaking the truth. Here, words liberate.’

  Back home Ubaba was a journalist and wrote about justice and peace but the bad men didn’t like his words and came to burn our house.

  ‘You must learn how to express language,’ he said, looking from me to Sicelo, ‘both of you. Language—’

  ‘Is your identity,’ me and Sicelo said, laughing.

  Ubaba raised his eyebrows and smiled at Umama. He said this all the time in the refugee camp and made us read and write stories every day. He taught other children to read and write on the dusty ground when they didn’t fit into the classrooms at the primary school. The camp was dirty and Umama didn’t let me go anywhere alone. It made people crazy, like the old man who had a fever. Umama was a nurse and even she couldn’t help him.

  After dinner, I went to my room to do homework on my new bed. Ubaba had brought it home a few days ago and put it in the lounge room. He was smiling for a long time. He said a kind neighbour had given it away. There was grass on the edges and Umama cleaned it with a cloth.

  ‘Gugu can have it.’

  ‘No, Sicelo, we can share it.’ He said no, his back was stronger; he’d keep sleeping on the floor.

  I sat on the bed and it was so soft I nearly fell off it! My writing book was red and green and my teacher put gold stickers in it. I wanted to show Sam when I saw him again. I was writing a story about the god Thora. Ugogo told me the story so many times I knew it off by heart. Thora had a baobab tree in his garden in the sky but he didn’t like it very much. One day he got angry and threw the baobab out of his garden and it landed upside down on earth.

  Ubaba got angry too. He worked with boxes now and every morning he said, ‘Off to my office I go!’ but some nights he came home really late. ‘It is an important job,’ he told me, ‘I am loading and unloading the nation’s food!’ But he had blisters as big as eyeballs on his feet when he soaked them in hot water. Yesterday I went to get a drink and heard him whispering to Umama. ‘It is hard to go from working with the mind to working with the body. I can see shame in Sicelo’s eyes when he looks at me,’ he said. ‘What will happen if he finds out I clean toilets? I don’t want to lose the respect of my children.’ Shh, Umama said, it will get better, but Ubaba said the word that made me so angry I wanted to scream! ‘From journalist to refugee …’ I ran back to my room.

  Refugee.

  I wrote the word on a new page. It was big and ugly and made me feel like I didn’t belong
. I am more than a refugee, I wrote. Can’t you see? I have a heart like you.

  I am more than a refugee.

  Julie’s house was a mansion made of glass. It sparkled like Cinderella’s slipper. A staircase circled the entrance. Me, Seren and Jake were careful not to touch anything when we walked in. The place was the kind of ‘distinguished’ that they wanted us to be at school. Classy, elegant, rich. Not that me and Mum were poor, but our money didn’t make us shiny like theirs did. A good thing. If I lived in a house like that I’d be scared to fart in case it cracked a vase.

  ‘There you guys are,’ said Julie, squeezing Seren’s arm. She pecked Jake on the cheek and gave me a glance that crinkled her nose. ‘This isn’t a dress-up party,’ she said, eyeing my face.

  It’s not a brothel either, I wanted to say, go cover your arse cheeks, but Jake half choked when he cleared his throat and said, ‘I think she looks great.’

  ‘Ada’s amazing with make-up.’ Seren winked at me. Like I cared what Julie thought. It took me an hour to exaggerate my eyes with liquid eyeliner and white eyeshadow to capture the amime look. My make-up had more class than her gold sequinned dress.

  We followed Julie to the backyard. There were white fairy lights everywhere and a big marquee with a bar. A DJ booth was set up on a small stage. Bit over the top for a sixteenth.

  Caterers brought around trays of glossy canapes. I scoffed down a handful. I was too nervous to do anything else. Julie’s parents were too small for a house this big. They floated around, smiling at everyone, sipping champagne from long, skinny glasses.

  ‘Hey, cool make-up,’ a guy said. I wasn’t sure if he was serious or making fun of me so I returned his thumbs up and looked away quickly.

  ‘What the hell was I thinking?’ I whispered to Seren. ‘I feel like a clown.’

  ‘Shh. You look amazing … but lucky you didn’t wear the gold eye contacts!’

  ‘Oh my god, imagine!’ We laughed as the DJ played Iggy Azalea and a skinny guy tried to twerk. Jake went to speak to Julie’s boyfriend Adam, and Seren and I didn’t know where to look or stand. A red carpet was spread across the grass and the clique from school was hanging out there taking selfies. They were balancing on six-inch heels that would have left me paralysed. My jeans felt too tight and my suspenders were digging into my stomach. I should have worn a loose shirt. ‘I need a drink.’

  We went to the bar and I asked the young guy behind the table for a cranberry juice.

  ‘A Coke for me, thanks,’ Seren said. She elbowed me as he was pouring our drinks. ‘He’s cute.’

  ‘Nah, he’s too pretty.’ I sipped my juice. It was warm. ‘Plus, he looked at me like I was a freak.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘This one’s too pretty or that one’s too rough. What the hell do you want?’

  I shrugged. We stood next to a pot plant pretending to talk but really we were watching everyone watch everyone else.

  Julie’s parents left an hour later and the music got louder and pumped the latest dance tracks. Jake brought me a vodka cranberry and I was so thirsty I sculled it to get the taste of caviar out of my mouth.

  ‘Whoa,’ Jake said. ‘Take it easy.’

  ‘It tasted like nothing,’ I said, but my stomach went nuts. ‘I’m starving. Don’t they have normal food here?’

  Me and Seren hung out in the kitchen till the caterers gave us beef sliders. ‘Yum,’ I said, and licked aioli off my fingers.

  ‘You drunk?’ Seren said, picking the cheese off the beef.

  ‘I feel light.’

  ‘Maybe don’t have any more. Your mum will flip.’

  ‘No way. I’m done. I don’t even like alcohol.’

  By the time we reached the backyard, boys were sculling green shots. ‘Hey, anime girl, scull this!’

  ‘No,’ I said, but he shoved the drink under my nose. ‘Come on, you’re the coolest chick here!’

  Seren did the eyebrow jiggle but when I reached for the shot she shook her head till I couldn’t see her face anymore. Talk about an overreaction. It was only one drink, my first shot ever, and it burned all the way to my stomach. The boys yelled and cheered and my chest puffed out. So this was what cool felt like.

  ‘Don’t have any more,’ Jake warned. ‘You’ll pay for it tomorrow.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said, but I was annoyed. Jake and Seren were acting worse than Mum. I burped and it tasted like aioli. I went to find some water but everywhere I turned I saw the clique. They were laughing and cheering in their sparkling dresses. One looked fuzzy and I rubbed my eyes till she turned to normal.

  ‘Anime girl,’ the same guy said. ‘I’m Anton, by the way.’ He kissed my cheek and his skin smelled like mint. ‘Have a drink with me,’ he whispered in my ear. His lips touched my earlobe and goosebumps pricked my skin.

  ‘Scull! Scull! Scull!’ people yelled like they were at a footy match. I laughed like crazy. They were so funny. When did they get so funny?

  ‘Ada, enough.’

  ‘Leave her.’

  Voices were everywhere but didn’t belong to anyone. The house started to tip, or was it my shoes? I had to take them off. Where was Seren?

  I found a bedroom, then a toilet. I sat on the tiles. It was quiet there. Did everyone go home?

  ‘You lost?’ a girl said. She leaned in so close I could see her pink lip liner. She pulled me up and took me outside to the front yard. ‘Sit here. You need fresh air.’

  ‘I’m on fire, you know,’ I said. ‘But my bum’s cold.’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, you are. You’re hot.’

  ‘There’s a fire in my belly.’ I laughed out loud and touched her lips.

  She held my fingers against her mouth, pulled me closer. Her dark eyes were drawing me in. There were two of her and when I blinked, her face was close to mine. She kissed me and her mouth tasted sweet. Her lips were big and soft, not rough and cracked like Dimitri’s. I kissed her back and the fire in my chest spread all the way to my stomach and down my legs. People were whistling, clapping and hooting but it felt like a dream. I was floating and free, and her tongue was hot and wet and slippery in my mouth. ‘Oh my god,’ someone said, but there was nothing else – just her – and I couldn’t pull away.

  ‘Ada!’

  The girl stopped and I said no come back until a shadow that looked like Mum pulled my arm.

  ‘Get away from my daughter!’ the shadow said, and I vomited onto the grass.

  Dad’s smug face at the court hearing kept me up all weekend. I paced my room, practised my jabs and did close grip push-ups but his grin was still in my head. Mum slept on the couch in the lounge. She’d placed a cricket bat next to the front door. I sat next to her and watched TV till the sun came up.

  School was a slog today. I yawned and sipped Coke under a tree near the oval at lunchtime. The sun reached through the branches and made shadows on the grass. When the bell rang, kids scurried back to class like mice in their cages in science. That’s what school did. Trapped kids in one big experiment, fed them crap so that nobody had original thoughts.

  I fingered the paperclip in my pocket. Mr Morisi stocked art supplies that stores sold for an arm and a leg. They’d help Sam hook the thoughts that hurt him, to throw them onto the page. Sam was innocent; his bones weren’t crooked like mine. I could shove words down kids’ throats with my fists to shut them up if I had to but Sam couldn’t. He didn’t have it in him to give it back to that scumbag Bad Bill.

  Sicelo from next door showed me who Bad Bill was this morning. We hid behind a tree outside school till Sam walked past with Gugu. He pointed Bill out, a tall fat kid with a lard gut. ‘Can you watch out for Sam at school for me?’ I asked Sicelo. ‘Until I deal with this prick Bill?’ Sicelo nodded, his face serious.

  The Arab refugee kids walked past talking in their language. Zain waved. He was the head of their group, with black hair that was slicked back like an old man’s.

  I waved back and got up when the school grounds were empty. Mr Morisi’s art suppl
ies were stored in a cupboard near the art room. The corridor was clear; just me, the lockers, grey walls and big posters that spoke of success – all that state-of-mind bullshit. My head was a bubble, ready to pop. Success was to look after your little brother, to get strong enough to stand up to your dad when he found his way home.

  I grabbed my school bag from my locker and crept down the corridor. A few kids were painting in the art room and listening to the radio to help them work. It was the in thing and lots of kids picked the subject just so they could listen to music and bludge with paint. I stood near a locker until Mr Morisi got busy with a lecture, his back to the door. He was softer than a marshmallow. His glasses made his eyes look thick. According to rumours, he was sleeping with Mr Greg.

  The cupboard had a thick lock. The paperclip was a perfect fit. Boys screamed in the science room down the corridor and the art room radio murmured a rock song. Nothing moved but the clip and I cracked the lock open in a minute, a new record. The door creaked open and the smell of paint fumes hit my face. I stuffed white watercolour paper and two brushes into my school bag.

  I threw in a pack of paint palettes with three different shades of blue, another with red, yellow and green. Sam loved colour. It’s all he spoke about after we watched Up, his eyes big, blue and shiny like the balloons in the movie—

  ‘What is going on here?’

  The voice hit me from behind and made me smash my head on the cupboard door. ‘Jeez, Miss, don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on people?’ Where the hell did she come from?

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Miss Barlo.

  ‘Miss, why does your mouth shake every time you raise your voice? It does you no favours. Anyone ever tell you that?’ Her face went bright red. She was soft, like most teachers here. They had no clue.

  ‘Answer the question, Kane.’

  ‘What’s the problem, Miss? Mr Morisi asked me to get some supplies for art class.’