by Clare Atkins
‘Wait here a sec, okay?’
I hang in the doorway, feeling conspicuous. There’s an article from the NT News stuck on the wall. I read it to look busy. It’s about a student at our school: a girl from ‘war-torn Africa’ who wants to become a nurse.
Zahra appears in front of me. ‘Yes?’
I waver under her intense gaze. ‘Ana called me yesterday … but I couldn’t talk. She sounded upset … and now she’s not here.’
‘Her mother have the baby.’ Her voice is flat and matter of fact.
‘What?’ I’m stunned.
‘You don’t know? Her mother is pregnant. Anahita not tell you?’
‘No.’ I feel my face flush.
Dad’s voice sounds in my head: What do you really know about her anyway?
‘She doesn’t like to talk about her past … or life inside,’ I say.
Zahra raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
My mind is reeling. ‘How long will she be away?’
‘I hope not too long,’ says Zahra. ‘Inshallah.’
ANA
The hospital reeks of antiseptic and bleach. There are two officers sitting by the door of the maternity wing. The officer who brought us greets them, and they nod for Arash and me to pass. Inside Maman’s room, the floor is scratched tan lino, and the walls a heavy dark blue. The whole space feels sad and worn. But there is light from windows on one side.
And there is Maman, on the bed. I hurry towards her.
She is resting, eyes closed.
Arash struggles out of my arms and hauls himself up beside her. Maman’s eyes burst open and she yelps in pain.
He crawls closer anyway, until he is panting in her face, like a little puppy desperate for a pat.
‘Careful!’ Maman shoves him off the bed.
His face crumples. I quickly pick him up and stand by Maman’s side. Her skin is pale and paper-thin.
Next to the bed is a see-through plastic capsule, with a tiny baby bundled up inside, only her face visible above the white latticed cotton wrap. I stare at her perfect little lips, nose, eyes. I melt. ‘Oh, Maman. She’s beautiful.’
A doctor bustles in, stethoscope draped around his neck. ‘How are you feeling now, Mrs Shirdel? Have the painkillers kicked in?’
Maman doesn’t respond.
The doctor tries again, slower and louder. ‘Any pain? Sore?’ He gestures to her abdomen, and Maman manages a small nod.
‘Is she … okay?’ I ask. ‘The birth is … alright?’
‘It was a pretty classic C-section.’ I’m not sure what that means. The doctor peers into my face, searching for understanding. ‘You know, a caesarean?’ He mimes a straight slash across his belly and says, ‘I reckon she could’ve had a natural birth, easy, but it was like she didn’t even want to try.’ He picks up the chart hanging on the end of Maman’s bed. ‘Have we got a name yet? For the baby?’
I put a gentle hand on Maman’s arm. ‘Maman, what is the baby’s name?’
But she doesn’t answer. Doesn’t say anything at all.
Just stares out the window, into the light.
JONO
I send Ana a message, trying my best not to sound too awkward or surprised.
Zahra told me about your mum and the baby – congratulations!
She doesn’t reply. And she’s not at school the next day.
I send another message.
Ana, is everything okay? I’m sorry I couldn’t talk – my dad was standing right there. Can you call again? Or give me your number?
Still nothing. Desperation seeps in. Despite my resolve to stay cool, I send another, then another.
Are you coming back to school?
Please just message me. Let me know you’re alright.
Are you angry at me for some reason?
I understand if you can’t call, but I’m worried about you …
Either she doesn’t get them or she doesn’t want to reply. I think about asking Zahra for an update, but it’s humiliating to admit Ana hasn’t been in touch. I wish I could ask Dad if he’s seen her at work, but I know there’s no way he’ll tell me anything that helps.
I google: visit Wickham Point. It comes straight up. Wickham Point Alternative Place of Detention. Contact details and visiting hours. Open seven days a week.
I’m nervy as I call the number and wait for it to ring. A man with a sing-song Indian lilt answers and tells me that I need to fill out a visit-request form first. ‘I can email it to you. You just need to provide your details, some ID and your friend’s boat number.’
‘Sorry … what’s a boat number?’
‘Just ask your friend in here. They’ll know.’
I give him my email address, thank him and hang up, then add another message to my growing, unanswered list: What’s your boat number?
And then: What is a boat number anyway?
My questions glare at me from the screen.
KENNY
I take my time as I enter an incident report from this evening: two Rohingya guys climbed onto the roof of the Sand compound, demanding to see their case manager. The night manager, Scott, said to ignore them; they’d come down once it got dark. But it’s night now, and they haven’t budged.
I wonder what they feel up there, under the stars and the wide open sky.
I finish the report and am about to log off, when I see someone has lodged an incident report for KIN015. The girl’s mother.
I click on the file. Fatemeh Shirdel’s detainment history fills the screen.
The report says: Attempt to abscond from Royal Darwin Hospital with baby. Escorted back to bed. Detainee did not resist.
I scroll down. There are hundreds of requests to see her lawyer, her case manager, a doctor, a nurse. Requests to transfer her boyfriend from Nauru to Darwin for the birth. I don’t have access to the boyfriend’s file; the Nauruans have their own system. But I can see the files of the two children. I click on KIN016.
The girl’s file appears, and I quickly scan down the notes.
There are no complaints about her behaviour. I almost wish there were. There is nothing about her life history or her claim for refugee status either; only the case managers have access to that.
I jump as the door squeals open, and Scott leans his head in. ‘You done yet? I need you back out there on the floor.’
ANA
Another 2.00pm visit. This time Eliza is at the hospital when we arrive. She’s chatting to the officers outside the maternity wing and looks up as we approach. Arash bounds into her arms. She carries him into the ward, along with a teddy bear she’s brought for the baby with no name.
Maman doesn’t take the bear, or acknowledge it, or even smile. Arash claims the teddy as his own. He makes it walk over peaks of white sterile sheet, as Eliza hovers nervously by Maman’s side. She tries the usual string of compliments: She’s beautiful. So small. She looks like you.
Maman is silent. Blank.
Eliza tries again, this time more direct. ‘Fatemeh, I want you to know I’m sorry Abdul wasn’t here. I haven’t given up. I escalated the case to reunite you, but I haven’t heard back.’ When Maman doesn’t reply, she says: ‘At least they’re letting you go home tomorrow. That’s good news.’
Maman finally speaks; her voice is hard and grey. ‘And then what? Where will they send us after that?’
I translate, and Eliza falters, ‘Well, they can’t legally send you back to Iran unless you agree. I’m sure your lawyer would’ve told you that –’
Maman cuts over her. ‘What about Christmas Island? Or Nauru? They can send us back there, to hell on earth.’
Eliza doesn’t need me to translate the Farsi this time; she understands Maman’s bleak tone and the names of the detention centres. Her voice wavers with the threat of tears, as she replies, ‘I have to be honest … I don’t know. But they don’t generally send mothers anywhere until the babies are at least a few weeks old. And, in the meantime, I’ll do everything I can.’
I tra
nslate for Maman, but from the look in her eyes I call tell she’s starting to think that Eliza’s ‘everything’ doesn’t equate to much.
JONO
I hurry to catch Zahra as she climbs off the detention centre bus.
She fixes me with a no-nonsense gaze. ‘Yes? What?’
I get straight to the point. ‘I want to visit Anahita, but I haven’t been able to contact her. Is she okay?’
‘She is looking after her brother. Her mum is still in hospital.’
‘Of course. I’m sure she’s busy but … Do you think she’d want a visitor?’
I’m about to ask about the boat number thing, but Zahra is already walking away. Brushing me off. She throws one last sentence over her shoulder as she goes.
‘You want to visit – you ask her.’
I try to keep busy to stop myself dwelling on Ana’s silence. Dad’s on night shift again, so Will and I head out. We go to the shed in Ludmilla, the one Matty told us about. I haven’t been there before, but Will’s been once with Mac. They’ve been raving about it ever since. Will reckons it was the best party ever – plus he sold heaps of pot.
We skate up the main road, throw our boards over a low metal fence and climb over. Walk through bright green grass up to our knees. Nearby there’s a smattering of rundown concrete houses, each painted in a different colour.
I recognise where we are: an Aboriginal community not far from our school. I’ve been past this place thousands of times, but never come in.
‘Isn’t this Bagot?’ I ask.
‘Kind of,’ says Will. ‘But we’re not going there. We just stay in the Ludshed. No-one else uses it. No-one cares.’
We’re close now. Music throbs through the metal door. Will pushes it, and then lifts to counteract a broken hinge.
Inside it’s nothing special, just a dirty concrete floor and tin walls. It’s big enough to have a bathroom area though, with two toilets sectioned off by a corrugated iron divider. Year 11s and 12s fill the empty shed, dancing and laughing and goofing around.
Matty appears from the crowd. ‘You made it,’ he says.
He does an elaborate handshake with Will that makes me wonder if Will’s come more than once.
I look around again. ‘Who owns this place anyway?’
‘Dunno.’ Matty turns to Will. ‘D’ya bring more tonight? That last lot was the bomb.’
Will nods. ‘Jono’s gonna help with distribution.’
He gives me a wink. We start to sell and smoke and sell and smoke. Will jokes around, making small talk with the customers, as I take their cash.
He grins at the growing wad of plastic notes in my hand.
‘What’s next on your shopping list?’
‘I’ve still got to pay you back for the last trip.’ I think of Ana’s absence and the watch lying in my drawer at home.
As if he’s read my mind, Will asks, ‘What’s happening anyway? You going to visit her?’
‘Yeah … probably … soon.’
‘Have you even spoken to her?’
‘It’s hard – she won’t give me her number ’cause apparently it’s tricky to get calls … so I have to wait till she calls me and she hasn’t done that since Dad answered and … I don’t know … it probably put her off …’
Will looks concerned. Protective, even. ‘Jono, if she’s messing you around …’
‘She’s not.’
‘I warned you, remember? I said be careful this time.’
‘I know. But everything’s alright. Her mum’s just had a baby. I’m sure she’ll get back in touch soon.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure.’ But we both know I’m not.
‘Look, Jono, forget about the watch.’ Will nods at the money in my hand. ‘And you can keep that cash. Just promise me you’ll buy something for yourself this time, okay?’
I know Will is worried; this is his way of trying to help. I hesitate, then fold the notes and shove them in my pocket.
‘Thanks.’
ANA
I hold the tiny baby against my chest. She is as light as a carton of milk. We wait for the officer to unlock the Surf compound gate and let us in. Maman’s eyes are blank. Her arms hang limply by her sides. She barely seems to notice Arash clinging to her skirt as if he’s worried she might disappear again at any time.
The officer reaches out and checks the ID hanging around Maman’s neck.
I hold out mine and Arash’s, and one for the baby too. A new one made just this morning: KIN014.1
The officer’s eyes flick over it. ‘Baby got a name yet?’
‘No.’
He peers at the tiny bundle of baby. ‘Boy or girl?’ I tell him, and he smiles. ‘She’s gotta have a name. What about … I don’t know … Did you want something Australian? Tell you what’s big at my kid’s childcare centre at the moment. Emily. Or Molly. Or Mia. What about Mia?’
‘Maybe.’ I manage a polite smile.
He looks from me to Maman, who is staring at the red dirt under our feet.
‘I think someone’s gonna come with baby clothes and bottles and formula and all that. Did they give you that stuff already?’
Maman remains mute.
I say, ‘No. Not yet.’
‘They should be in soon then. I’ll tell ’em you’re back from the hospital.’
‘Thanks.’
As we enter our small cube of a room, the baby starts to wail. Maman slowly lowers herself onto the mattress, grimacing in pain. I hold the baby out towards her. ‘Maman, do you want to feed her?’
But she just rolls on to her side, facing away. Silent, like she was the whole drive here. Arash goes to lie beside her and presses himself against her back. I jiggle the crying baby, then start to sing.
You are the sky’s great moon,
And I’ll become a star and go around you.
If you become a star and go around me,
I’ll become a cloud and cover your face …
I see Maman’s body tense, but she doesn’t move or join in.
It breaks my heart, as I remember …
… Maman singing at a small private party in our apartment in Tehran. It is one of her favourite songs: ‘Ghoghaye Setaregan’ by Parvin. Her voice soars and dips, as my family swells around me. Aunties and uncles and grandparents and cousins, laughing and dancing and singing along.
Yasmin appears beside me, and puts a glass of orange juice in my hands. She whispers, ‘It’s got vodka in it.’
I stare at her, then start to laugh. Abdul got some alcohol on the black market for the party, but obviously it’s not meant for us.
We take turns sipping it, as we laugh and dance. She throws her arms around me.
I wince as she touches my back. It’s still painful and raw.
She says, ‘Sorry … sorry … I’m just going to miss you so much.’
We’re leaving tomorrow, and she’s the only person I’ve been allowed to tell.
I hug her back, holding her tight, so tight …
The baby lets out a bleating protest, then starts to calm. I keep singing.
If you become a cloud and cover my face,
I’ll become the rain and will rain down …
My cheeks are wet with tears, as my baby sister’s tiny eyelids finally close.
KENNY
I hear them talking as I sign out. It’s 5.45am, and the officers for the day shift are lined up on the other wall, waiting to go in. One of them catches my eye and gives a friendly nod. I should know his name, but I don’t.
The man says, ‘You were in Surf, right? Last night?’ I nod, as he continues, ‘Did you see that new mum? Just back from hospital yesterday. Won’t even hold her baby.’
He seems to be waiting for a reaction, but I don’t know what to say. An image flickers into my mind: Roxanne curled up in our bed at home, weeping, as baby Jonathan wailed from the bassinet.
The woman behind the desk says, ‘It’s just barbaric. Who wouldn’t want to hold their own baby?
I tell you, these people.’
The man says, ‘Apparently there’s a big lot of ’em leaving soon – did you hear that? The ones who came here from Nauru to have babies are gonna be sent back.’
A droplet of guilt trickles down into my chest.
I tell myself I should be glad.
ANA
Zahra and her mother, Meena, come to see us early the next morning. I’m relieved that Maman at least sits up to receive her guests. Meena is all curves, from her hips and breasts up to her lips and eyes. She bustles around, restoring a motherly sense of order. She unpacks the baby supplies, which were delivered last night, and says, ‘You girls take Arash to breakfast. We’ll be okay here, won’t we, Fatemeh?’
To my surprise, Maman nods. Meena’s red lipstick curves up at the corners even more. She beams in my direction. ‘Your mother tells me you’re going to be a doctor. That you don’t like to miss too much school. I’m happy to come and help her on weekdays. It would be my pleasure.’ She picks up the baby and coos into her little face, before declaring, ‘She looks hungry.’
Maman talks in low, pained mutters of Farsi, then lifts her top to reveal two swollen red breasts, so full and angry they seem to shine.
Zahra gives me a look. ‘We’ll go then?’
‘Yes.’
I duck into the bathroom, and catch sight of my sunken eyes and scabby head. I quickly tie a headscarf on, remembering what it felt like …
… walking off the plane in Malaysia, elation trilling in every step.
Maman’s face glows as she pulls her hijab from her head. Glossy brown hair spills out around her face.
She grins at me. ‘Take yours off, Anahita.’
I do. It feels like I’ve removed a fiery iron band.
It is almost like freedom.…
Zahra, Arash and I escape outside. The sky shines bright blue; it is close and clear from a recent downpour of rain. I feel like I can breathe again. Arash runs circles around us, as we walk slowly towards the Mess.
‘So you’ll come back to school tomorrow?’ asks Zahra.
