by PJ Vye
The decision, in the end, to agree to The Rules had been easy. Living up to them—much, much harder. At fifteen, there hadn’t been a lot of rules in his aunt’s house when it came to school or scheduling or entertainment. He’d been clever at manipulating the boundaries in his favour. As long as he did the chores his aunt requested, stayed out of his uncle’s way and went to church on Sundays, he’d had free run of his life.
The shift from carefree teen to troubled protector had been swift and uncompromising. The reality of living a confined, restricted life bit into his ego and lifestyle with sharper teeth than he could’ve imagined. He’d believed he was made of incredible strength and grit—more than the average person. A boy who could watch his mother die at his father’s hands could surely endure ten simple rules.
For the first twelve years of his life, violence and assault were his normal, everyday world. Surely, with a murdered mother and incarcerated father, he could withstand anything? So how hard could it be to give up fried food and video games for twenty years? It was all about perspective. He was lucky to be alive at all. He was lucky his aunt had taken him in at twelve and offered him a place in her home and raised him alongside her own children.
Even so, when The Rules began, it nearly broke him. If the motivation hadn’t been so clear-cut, if keeping his family safe hadn’t been his only goal, Mataio’s resolve wouldn’t have lasted more than a day. Love of his family, honouring his mother, that was where his real strength rested.
At fifteen, it hadn’t taken long to learn that keeping his mind busy from thinking about what he’d lost and what he’d had to give up was the best way to push through those early days. He hadn’t planned to become a doctor—he just wanted to get a good enough score in his final year of school to get a good job so he could look after his aunt.
When Mataio’s attitude to study changed, teachers took a while to notice. They’d known about La’ei’s disappearance and probably assumed his new work ethic was just temporary and would pass. But as time went on, he went from being the class idiot to the class motivator. Learning had always been a lower priority to having fun in the classroom, so when that all changed, his teachers supported this new, dedicated Mataio without questioning his motives. Science and maths didn’t come easily to him, but what Mataio lacked in brainpower, he made up for in diligence and tenacity. If he performed poorly on a test, he’d ask to sit it again. He studied for hours every night to make up for ten years of schooling in two. Without the distraction of food, social life or entertainment, his life only consisted of homework and chores, travelling to and from school.
Mid-way through his final year of school the guidance counsellor suggested he apply for some scholarships—the ones to study medicine offered accommodation and by that time his welcome at his aunt’s had all but run out. Her misery had turned to anger. His uncle moved back to Samoa and he felt responsible for all of it.
When he finished his last exam, he refused to attend his high school graduation with the other year 12 students, despite the teachers offering to pay, lend him a suit and drive him to the event. They couldn’t understand why he’d dedicated himself to his study and then wouldn’t celebrate his incredible achievement.
He didn’t quite get a high enough score for medicine in Melbourne, but when he was offered a position and full scholarship in Canberra, he took it. Samoan doctors weren’t all that common and his dedication and ambition, so they said, was to be nurtured. For eight years he lived and studied interstate, doing his residence for a time in rural Victoria.
He developed a reputation for being distant, snobby and aloof through his university years. A man who won’t socialise with his classmates becomes mysterious and drew the kind of attention Mataio wanted to avoid. It was easier to let them think he was rude than the truth—he spent every waking hour studying just to stay in the course. If they’d known how many times he’d failed and had to redo, re-sit, they’d question his ability to be a doctor at all.
But Mataio knew, once he began at St Van Crofts Hospital, he was in the right place. He could live out The Rules in this profession perfectly. No time for a social life, serve without question, live an isolated and private life. Managing the income of an ER specialist was also easy— give it all to his aunt and serve two rules. No. 2 Protect the Family and No. 4 No Money, No Possessions.
Disturbingly, in front of him now, was a dilapidated house, and a dying man, so he’d failed on both accounts.
Junior stirred and Mataio stopped and moved the guitar to the floor. His aunt snored softly in her recliner.
“Don’t stop,” whispered Junior.
Mataio lifted the instrument back onto his lap and resumed the strum. “Do you remember it, Tuagane (brother)?” Mataio asked.
“Yes…you and La’ei…played it all the time…only song you knew…”
Mataio laughed. Junior had always been the guitarist and scathing in his criticism of Mataio’s technique.
“You do it then,” Mataio said, and held the guitar in one hand towards the man in the bed.
Junior gently shook his head.
Mataio returned the instrument to his lap and began a riff, repeating it over and over.
“You were her favourite…you know…” Junior sounded like he’d run a marathon.
“What?” asked Mataio, leaning in.
“…my sister…she liked you…better…”
“Nah man, come on.”
“…it’s okay…I’m Mum’s fav’rite…”
“Still are, Tuagane,” said Mataio.
He fell asleep again and Mataio resumed his quiet strum, alternating the string patterns to stretch his fingers. The tips started to hurt but he played on.
The rain hadn’t changed its monotone accompaniment by the time Junior woke again.
“I’m not going home, Taio,” said Junior. A statement, not a question. But his voice didn’t crackle this time.
Mataio didn’t need to ask what he meant by home.
“Is that where you want to go, JJ?”
“I wish I could.”
“Why didn’t you go back with Uncle Akamu when he asked you to?”
He didn’t answer and Mataio didn’t push it.
“What would you do? In Samoa?” asked Mataio.
The corners of Junior’s mouth creased, and his eyelids closed as he answered, “Toes in the warm sand, eat some Supasu on the beach. Pese i luna o le matafaga fates ai ma tausoga.”
“Get well, JJ. And we’ll go together.”
Junior’s eyes opened again and took a while to focus. “It’s a dream, my friend. I’ll leave this bed in a casket…and a crane.”
“No JJ. I won’t let that happen. E leai lava.”
“I’m dying, Taio. You don’t have to be white coat to know that.”
“It’s working, JJ.” As a medical professional, he must speak the truth to patients. With his cousin, he’d draw on every chance he had, including a placebo effect. “Trust me.”
“So why do I feel like I could sleep forever?”
“The body is working as hard as if you climbed a mountain every day. It’s not going to recover quickly. But you gotta believe you’re getting better, JJ.”
“Is this some bullshit you say to make me feel better?”
Mataio flicked Junior on the face under the chin, like he used to when they were kids. “Don’t give up. Let me do my job and save the predictions for who’s gonna win the world cup this year, okay? You hear me? JJ?”
But he’d already fallen back to sleep.
Mataio took Junior’s untouched phone from his nightstand and scrolled through some of the photographs they’d taken ten days ago. He held out the phone beside Junior’s face and glanced between the two. The old photo and the current Junior. He swiped through each photo, holding each one up to compare the two. Junior’s face had been rounder, puffier under the eyes, no chin to speak of. Now his cheekbones were visible, and the line of his chin peaked from within the rolls of fat. Right now, the skin
on his face was blotchy and red with dry patches of flaky skin that gave the impression he’d spent the last ten days on a summer vacation and got too much sun, rather than bound to a bed he couldn’t leave. His breath was short and his pulse weak. Junior had lost weight, but that could be because he’d stopped eating and nothing to do with the serum Mataio had developed.
Mataio rested his head on his arms beside Junior and began reciting the calculations in his head. Could he be wrong about the whole thing? Who did he think he was, coming up with a cure after such a short time? If it was that easy, surely someone would have beaten him to it? How arrogant to think he could do this?
Lucky arrogance wasn’t against The Rules.
Mataio woke up to the sound of pots banging in the kitchen and saw his aunt had left the recliner. His back ached from sleeping at such a weird angle and he stood and stretched, just as another pot smashed against something. He could hear his aunt muttering in Samoan but couldn’t make out the words. Mataio checked his cousin before he headed to the kitchen, his Aunt Tulula cleaning the stove.
“What are you doing, Aunt? Leave that. I’ll take care of it,” he said, as he rubbed her shoulder gently.
Aunt Tulula snorted and pulled away from his touch, scrubbing vigorously against the metal surface.
His aunt’s moods weren’t new to Mataio, but her silence was. “Can I make you anything?”
The scratching back and forth continued, her back to him. “The carer I hired starts tomorrow.”
She said nothing.
Mataio went back to Junior and waited for her to calm down.
After several hours, when she still hadn’t returned to check on her son, he went in search of her again. This time she was wrestling with the floor rug in the lounge room. She had parts of it pulled up over chairs and attempted to vacuum underneath while it flopped over her shoulders. Her lips pinched tightly together as she refused to stop and reposition the rug, probably because it was too heavy for her to lift alone. She battled on despite how ineffective her efforts were.
Mataio silently entered the room and rolled the rug in half, then lifted it up on his shoulders. Aunt Tulula looked around to see where it had gone and jerked her head sideways when she realised he’d come to help. Mataio felt his stomach tighten at the long, hard glare she gave him. She dropped the vacuum cleaner at his feet and walked away, leaving him holding a rug alone in the room.
Mataio couldn’t bear it any longer. He dropped the rug and went after her. “Aunt.”
He found her outside, beating a smaller rug with a stick on the clothesline. Years of dust floated around her with each strike and she wiped dirt from her eyes with the back of her hand that he suspected had stuck there from tears she wouldn’t show him.
Mataio wanted to reach out and hold her, comfort her like he wanted to be comforted himself. But he stood still and watched in silence until she’d beaten all she could. Finally, exhausted she put down the broom handle and headed towards him, not showing any sign of being surprised to see him there.
He saw the redness of her eyes as she pointed a finger into his face. “If he dies, Mataio, I will tell anyone who’ll listen, that my nephew, the great Doctor Brinn, killed my son with an experimental drug that didn’t work. I will yell and scream this fact until they have taken your medical license away.”
She walked back inside and let the screen door slam.
Mataio hung his head a while, not in a hurry to follow her but knowing he must. She was hurting and he was all she had.
A year after La’ei disappeared, Uncle Akamu decided the family would move back home to Samoa. His wife had become inconsolable and his son, Junior needed a new start away from the detectives and the questions and the madness.
Mataio, at sixteen was old enough to take care of himself and not invited. His father was still in the country after all, albeit in prison, and his uncle had refused to take him. Mataio knew the real reason was because of his mother had betrayed the family and he might not be welcome in Samoa.
His mother had married Bruce Brinn against the family’s wishes and had been outcast as a result. Uncle Akamu had been criticised for agreeing to follow his sister-in-law to Australia in the first place. The disappearance of his daughter La’ei seemed part justice. Aunt Tulula had refused to return to Samoa until her daughter was found.
Mataio remembered the heated nights—his uncle’s face blue with anger at his wife, Aunt Tulula silent but solid as steel. She would not be leaving Australia, and his uncle knew it. These were the nights Mataio fully expected to see his aunt threatened and beaten. Mataio had stood by, ready for his uncle to use the force that he expected from all adult men. When Akamu didn’t attack her, instead packing his bags and leaving without Tulula, Mataio understood a little more about the dysfunction of his own father. His Uncle Akamu was not a perfect man, but at least he respected his wife enough to not use violence. Uncle Akamu had begged Junior to come with him, but Junior knew there’d be no video games or KFC in Samoa and decided to stay with his mother in Australia, promising to visit. He never visited.
Aunt Tulula’s behaviour right now reminded him of that time when his uncle left. Mataio knew he wouldn’t be able to convince her of anything. He’d just have to wait until she was ready to speak again.
He found her in the kitchen, her back to him, bent secretly over the sink.
“Aunt, what are you doing?”
She kept hunched over, not answering.
Mataio moved closer, suddenly concerned. “Aunt, what are you doing?” He reached her just as she squeezed the last syringe of serum down the sink.
“No more, Mataio. No more. Leave my son alone.”
“Uso o lo’u tina—(my aunt—)”
“Get out.”
Seventeen
MATAIO
36 days to go
Mataio measured and remeasured close to a dozen times as he mixed the active ingredients and solvent before bringing the mixture to the boil. He checked his notes, re-did the formula calculations and kept his focus. When his mind wandered to his aunt’s words or Sunny’s situation, he willed it back, determined there would be no mistakes. He needed to be confident he had it right this time. No room for any doubt.
He worked through the night, slept only for twenty minutes at a time and spent the night observing, stirring, separating and monitoring. He poured the slurry into the dryer, the second last phase of the process and watched the particles sink through the cylinder a while—a hypnotic process.
He considered another short nap—there was nothing he could do now for several hours. He looked through the plastic sheeting that surrounded his work area to the single mattress on the floor. His sleeping bag lay half-zipped where he’d left it, the pillow still with no covering.
This warehouse had been cheap, large and out of the way enough that no-one would bother him, but it was never designed to be a residence—the upstairs unit had been for that. Downstairs was just a toilet and small basin in the corner. He showered and ate at work normally so there’d been no need for bathrooms or kitchens. The room had housed, in the throes of his experimentation over the past year, a dozen or so caged rats, then rabbits, all at varying stages of obesity. The animals were gone now but the cages remained, and he missed the occasional scamper, the crunch of them eating through the night.
The room was quiet now, except for Sunny’s movement upstairs. He stretched out on the bed and turned his mind away from all the thoughts that threatened to defeat him.
Only five weeks to go.
He’d decided some time ago he would keep The Rules, even when he was free to let them go. He liked his life now. He liked his own company, and the idea of socialising or sharing a home terrified him. He accepted he’d missed the chance to learn how to be a part of another person’s life and doubted he’d ever want to try. He didn’t feel regret or loss. He didn’t feel much of anything. And who could deny the success he’d become professionally? No way he would be a doctor now if The Rules hadn’t
come into his life at fifteen.
Mataio rolled onto his side and considered the jobs he might have been doing—a past-time he often indulged in before sleep. He’d be working a dead-end job as someone’s hand, maybe even still working fast food restaurants or labouring somewhere. He doubted he’d have finished school. At fifteen he’d only been interested in surviving to make enough money to enjoy himself. Life had been for living in the moment. He could still remember the feeling of excitement that something big was coming. A whole life to be lived that was his. Where his father had no influence and where he didn’t have to feel indebted to his aunt and uncle day and night. A weight would be lifted when he turned eighteen and could take responsibility for himself. How funny to think that could have been his life.
Thirty-six days to go—the day would be here soon enough, but he felt no anticipation or excitement about having his life back or the changes ahead.
He reached under the mattress for the worn note pad and pulled the pen from the spiral binding. On the top of a blank sheet he wrote the month and year, then spent the next twenty minutes listing how he’d complied with The Rules under ten separate headings. Rule No. 2 Protect the Family had been easy to fill with a clear conscious this month. Others, like Rule No 3. No Pleasure, a little harder. Eating his aunt’s food had been necessary, but he ate as little as possible. Rule No. 5 Never Tell once again, the easiest to follow. With no friends, there were no questions. Rule No. 7 No Sex. There was no-one he’d had to reject this month. No feelings to hurt. He simply wrote, ‘none’ beside the number.
Once finished, he felt around under the mattress for an envelope, addressed it and sat it beside his bed to post tomorrow. He pushed the note pad away, closed his eyes and felt his body release to sleep.
