A Weekend with Oscar

by Robyn Bavati

  Maybe I should call an ambulance and take Oscar to hospital. Isn’t that what Mum would do? Should I wake Selena and ask her advice? But she may not even know we’re here, and the middle of the night is probably not the best time to announce our presence.

  I look through the bathroom cabinet for inspiration and find some homeopathic medicine he’s taken before. I put ten drops into a glass of water.

  “Drink this, Oscar.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. Open your mouth. One sip at a time.”

  It takes a while, but eventually he gets it down. A little later, his pain subsides.

  A shaft of sunlight dances on my eyelids, waking me up. Beside me, Oscar groans in his sleep. I shove him gently. He rolls over onto his side and the groaning stops. I reach for my phone to check the time. Ten o’clock in Melbourne, eight in Perth.

  I get up and close the study door behind me so as not to wake Oscar. Enjoying the minty taste of toothpaste as I brush my teeth, I shake off the worry that has plagued me since the night Mum’s been missing. I’ve made it this far. It won’t be long before Selena wakes up and gives me some answers.

  The house is quiet. I walk slowly from room to room. All the blinds are down and the curtains closed. I open them up and the light pours in.

  It’s an ordinary house, not glamorous or new. The beige carpet is worn, the furniture shabby. Everything is as I remember – the living room with the red-brick fireplace that nobody uses, the wall clock in the kitchen that has always been stuck on a quarter to nine. The house is comforting in its familiarity, but it makes me nostalgic. Last time I was here, Mum and Dad were too.

  I open the back door and step into the garden. The air is dawn-cool and I breathe in deeply. A bird chirps, and from over the fence in the neighbour’s garden comes an answering warble.

  We’re in a quiet neighbourhood, not far from the lake. Listening carefully, I can just make out the faint hum of traffic in the distance.

  I end my tour of the house back in the kitchen. The only room I haven’t entered is Aunt Selena’s. I’m torn as to whether I should risk waking her.

  I’ve come here for answers. And I’m relying on Selena to give them to me. I think I should let her know we’re here. Then, when she’s properly awake, I can ask her what happened to Mum. She probably doesn’t realise no one has told us. Or maybe she’s so cut up over Roger leaving she’s forgotten Oscar and I even exist.

  Her bedroom door is shut. I knock softly. No answer. I knock louder, loud enough to wake her. Still no answer.

  Now what? I haven’t come all this way just to sit and wait. “Selena?”

  To confirm what I already strongly suspect, I open the door and peek inside. The bed is made up. It hasn’t been slept in.

  My heart sinks. Now it’s not just Mum who’s missing. Selena is too.

  The relief I felt at making it here has vanished and the worry returns.

  Is it a coincidence, or could they both have gone missing together?

  I walk through the house again, looking for clues. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find. A Post-it note stuck onto the fridge conveniently explaining where they are?

  The house is the same as it was a moment ago and seems undisturbed. No sign of a burglary or a struggle. No broken windows, no shattered plates or glasses. There is nothing to suggest that anyone left in a hurry. The rooms are tidy. There are no unwashed dishes in the sink.

  I search the kitchen for food. In the pantry, there are a few packets of dried beans and one of rice. There is a tin of tuna and one of sardines. There is also a second packet of Jam fancies, right at eye level. I move it to the very back of the top shelf, out of Oscar’s sight and out of his reach.

  The fridge contains nothing but a pot of yogurt way past its use-by date and a half litre of milk. I gag when I sniff it. There is nothing fresh – not a single fruit or vegetable. I will have to buy food. How long can I make my savings last? I can see them dwindling.

  I force myself to breathe long and deeply, trying to stem the panic. Oscar will be up soon. I have to at least appear to be calm.

  I make a snap decision about what I’m going to do today – I’ll check out the hospitals. It’s either that or the police. If I involve the police, they’ll take over completely. I’ll lose all control. It will end with Oscar being taken away. I can’t let that happen.

  While Oscar’s still sleeping, I look up Perth hospitals, their names and locations. I’ll start with the biggest. Do I want to find Mum in one of them? I’m not really sure. It’s not that I want to her to be injured or unwell. But she could be on the road to recovery, which would be a whole lot better than the gruesome alternatives my mind has conjured.

  “Jamie?” Oscar appears barefoot in the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “I’m hungry.”

  I suppose it’s a good sign that after last night’s drama, he’s able to stomach the thought of food.

  “Where’s Mum?” he asks.

  “We’ll start looking for her after we’ve eaten.” I open a tin of sardines, drain the oil and slide them onto a plate. “Here. Breakfast, Oscar.”

  “I want toast too.”

  “There isn’t any bread. We’ll buy some later.”

  Instead of asking whether Helen Anderson has been admitted to the hospital, which might lead to a whole lot of questions I won’t be able to answer, I figure it will save time simply to ask for her room number. I don’t ask about Selena. My priority is finding Mum, and the likelihood of them both being in hospital seems remote.

  Besides, it’s not as if Selena gives me regular updates on her whereabouts, and she wasn’t expecting us. Selena may not be missing at all. Not the way Mum is.

  “Sorry, could you repeat the name?”

  “Anderson. Helen Anderson.”

  “One moment, please.” The woman I’m talking to on the phone puts me on hold. I’m subjected to a recorded message about the latest innovations at the hospital and the expertise of the staff. Soon, the same woman is back on the line. “I’m sorry; she doesn’t appear to be a patient here. Are you sure you’ve got the right hospital?”

  “No. No, I’m not sure. Thanks anyway.”

  I ring the next one on the list. The conversation is almost identical to the one before.

  “Anderson? Helen?”

  “That’s right.”

  There are twelve public hospitals in Perth and sixteen private ones. I’m calling the public ones first, but it’s after one o’clock and I’m only up to number eight. It’s taking way longer than expected and the answer is always the same. No, she isn’t here. We don’t have a Helen Anderson in our system.

  Oscar is getting hungry again. After all the walking and travelling we did yesterday, he’s happy to sit with his colouring book and watch TV while I take the bus to the supermarket to stock up on supplies.

  I can’t find a key, so I leave the door unlocked and hope that no one walks in while I’m gone, unless it’s Selena. I check that the window I climbed in through last night is still open, just in case Oscar decides to lock me out.

  It’s almost three when I get back and lack of food has made him grumpy. I don’t blame him. I’m grumpy too. I make him a sandwich with hummus and pickles. He takes huge bites of it, shovelling the next one in before he’s finished the first.

  “Slow down, Oscar, or you’ll get a tummy ache.”

  “Where’s Mum?” he asks.

  “I’m still looking.”

  If Mum got sick when she came to Perth, she could be in any one of the hospitals in this city, and since I don’t know what, if anything, is wrong with her, I can’t know which department she’d be in.

  It takes me till the following day to ring all twenty-eight hospitals in Perth, and I really don’t want to start on the many more in the surrounding areas.

  It’s Wednesday afternoon now and I’m down to the last hospital on my list.

  “I’m sorry, we have no record of a Helen Anderson.”

  The convers
ation is so predictable I’m about to hang up when the woman says, “Who are you? A relative?”

  “Yes, I’m her son.”

  “What made you think your mother was here?”

  “She . . . didn’t come home.” I don’t let on how long she’s been missing. It sounds like it’s been a matter of hours. “I think . . .” I’m hoping that saying it won’t make it real. “I think she might have had an accident.”

  I hear a sigh. “Have you told the police?”

  “I thought I’d check the hospitals first.”

  “It would be quicker to go through the police. But, if she has been in an accident, she’d have been taken to the Royal Perth Hospital. It’s the only one in Perth with a dedicated trauma unit.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I don’t bother mentioning that I already tried the Royal Perth, that it was the first on my list. They said they had no record of a Helen Anderson, but what if they made a mistake?

  I decide to go there and ask again. They’ll have to check more thoroughly if I turn up in person.

  It’s ten days since Mum should have returned home, and for a moment I wonder if our paths crossed in the sky and Mum was on her way to Melbourne while Oscar and I were flying to Perth. I know it’s not likely. Besides, if she’d turned up at home and found the house empty, she’d have called.

  The Royal Perth Hospital is not very far from Wembley Downs. It’s one bus ride away. According to the Transperth website, it will take thirty-five minutes to get there, though with Oscar in tow, it could take twice as long.

  I’m tempted to let Oscar stay behind. It would be so much easier leaving him here to watch TV, but he hasn’t left the house since we arrived and he needs to move. Also, now that he’s no longer tired, I’m not sure I can trust him to stay home alone. The last thing I need is for Oscar to wander off and get lost.

  “Come on, Oscar. We’re going.”

  “Where to?” he asks.

  “A hospital. To look for Mum.”

  “Is she sick?”

  “I don’t think so, but she might have had an accident.” She might be unconscious, she might be in a critical condition, she might be dead, for all we know.

  I’d love to take a taxi, but I have to be careful with my savings.

  Oscar doesn’t argue. I open the front door and he steps outside. “Wait here while I Iock the door.” I snip the latch behind him, dash through the house and climb out through the guestroom window.

  Oscar is waiting for me as instructed. He’s in a cooperative mood, and forty-five minutes after we leave Selena’s house, we arrive at the hospital in Wellington Street.

  “Helen,” I repeat. “Helen Anderson.”

  “No, I’ve checked the database twice. There’s no patient here by that name.” The receptionist is sympathetic but unhelpful.

  “I want my mum,” Oscar yells.

  “Are you sure you’ve checked every department?”

  “Yes, every ward,” the receptionist says. “She isn’t here . . . unless she’s in Accident and Emergency and hasn’t been admitted yet. You could go there and see.”

  “But she’s been missing since last Sunday,” I blurt out.

  “I see.” The receptionist looks us up and down. “Have you told the police?”

  “Yes,” I lie.

  “Then I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do.”

  Oscar starts up again. “I want my mum. I want my mum. I want my mum.”

  People are staring. The receptionist is frowning and biting her lip. “I’m sorry; I can’t help you. You’d better leave.”

  Oscar shakes his head, refusing to budge. I really don’t blame him.

  What has happened to our mother? Not knowing is unbearable. Knowing might be even worse.

  “Look again,” I insist.

  The receptionist is pretending to be in control but her whole body is trembling. “I already told you she isn’t here. If you don’t leave now, I’ll have to get someone to escort you out.”

  Neither of us makes any move to leave.

  “Right, I’m calling security.”

  The moment she leaves her desk I jump over the counter and commandeer her computer, searching the databases, typing Mum’s name.

  “You can’t do that,” she cries, hurrying back. She tries to physically remove my hands from the keyboard. I’m stronger than she is and won’t let go. I watch myself as if from a distance, as if I’m watching a stranger. Who am I? Have I gone mad?

  “Sandra, what’s going on?” A woman in a nurse’s uniform appears out of nowhere.

  “These boys are looking for their mother,” the receptionist says. “She’s missing, but she isn’t here.”

  The nurse glances at Oscar, who hasn’t stopped yelling, then back at me. She takes in my distress and looks at me probingly. “Actually, there’s a woman in ICU . . .”

  “And?” says Sandra.

  This time the nurse addresses me. “I could be quite wrong about this and I don’t want you to get your hopes up, but . . .”

  “What?” I almost yell.

  “The woman in ICU . . . she’s about the age your mother would be.”

  “What’s her name?” I hold my breath, not daring to breathe.

  “We don’t know. Why don’t you come and see if it’s her?”

  Oscar has quietened down. He’s looking from me to the nurse and back again. I take hold of his hand and we walk with her towards the lifts.

  “I’m Megan, by the way.” I already know this. Megan Simons. Her name’s on her badge.

  From the map on the wall beside the lift, I see that the hospital is huge.

  “The ICU is in North Block,” Megan says, as we step into the lift.

  One floor up, we follow her into a different lift. We get out on the fourth floor and follow her past a sign that says Intensive Care Unit. We go through a set of glass doors.

  “There,” says Megan. She points to a woman who is sleeping, eyes closed, tubes hooked up to various limbs, an array of medical equipment around her. From this distance, she is unrecognisable. She could be anyone.

  I move slowly towards the bed. Up close, there is no doubt about it. She’s thinner and more fragile, and with sunken cheeks and unbrushed hair. She looks much older than the mother I remember. But it’s Mum, all right.

  I rush to her side, touch her arm.

  Tears prick my eyes. I look at Megan, and nod. I don’t trust myself to speak. If I open my mouth, I’ll burst into tears.

  “Why is she sleeping?” Oscar asks.

  “She’s in a coma,” says Megan.

  “Is she okay?” As soon as the words leave my lips, I realise how stupid that sounds.

  “Her condition is stable.”

  “Will she wake up?”

  “That’s not something we can predict.”

  I tear my eyes away from Mum and glance back at Megan. “How long has she been here?”

  “She was airlifted here on the day of that terrible storm. The car she was in was half-submerged in water; everything in it was swept away. We couldn’t find any identification.”

  I try to imagine what Mum must have gone through.

  “Whose car was she in?”

  “Unfortunately, the owner-driver of the car service was dead by the time the rescue team arrived. His wife said he’d been taking someone to the airport, she didn’t know who. Your mum must have called to make the booking, but the police couldn’t find the driver’s phone.”

  Megan’s voice is a blend of sympathy and professionalism. She reminds me of those doctors you see on medical dramas when they deliver bad news.

  But to me she’s an angel. She came to the rescue. What are the chances? She could so easily have ignored the scene that Oscar and I were creating.

  “What’s that?” asks Oscar, pointing to a plastic tube that snakes its way beneath the sheet to a bag of yellow liquid.

  “A catheter,” says Megan.

  Oscar doesn’t ask for further explanations.

 
There is another bag, one filled with clear fluid, attached to a tube that goes into Mum’s arm.

  “We’re giving her nutrients and electrolytes,” Megan says in answer to my unspoken question.

  Although it has been ten days since the accident, Mum’s face still looks discoloured. There is yellow bruising on her forehead and the skin around her eyes looks purple and swollen.

  “Does she have any other injuries?” I ask. “Apart from the bruises?”

  “Broken ribs. They’ll knit back together. We had her on a breathing machine for a couple of days while we put a shunt into her head to drain excess fluid, but now she’s breathing fine on her own.” Megan sweeps a stray hair out of her eyes. “I’ll give you a few minutes alone with her.”

  “Is . . . is it okay if we touch her?”

  “Of course. You can talk to her too.”

  “Will she hear us?” I place my hand gently on Mum’s arm.

  “There’s evidence to suggest she may.” Megan brings a chair over and places it beside the bed. “Give me your names. I’ll let the other staff know you’re here.”

  “I’m Jamie. James. Anderson. And this is Oscar.”

  After Megan leaves the room, Oscar sits down and stares at Mum, who is and isn’t the mother we remember.

  “Mum . . .” My voice breaks as I try to speak. I want to tell her to wake up, to come back to us, that I’m terrified of facing life without her.

  “Mum . . .” I try again.

  I have no idea what to say, where to begin. Should I describe how awful it’s been without her? No, that would be selfish. I don’t want to burden her, or worse, blame her.

  I could talk about school, but then I’d have to tell her I missed an exam – I don’t want to lie. I could tell her that Oscar and I are okay, but I’m not sure we are, because we don’t know what our future will be. I could talk about how I’ve fallen for Zara so badly it hurts, but it’s private and embarrassing, and I don’t have words to describe the seesaw of feelings, or their intensity.

  Each time I open my mouth to speak, I close it again.

  Megan comes back and takes in the scene. “Just talk,” she says. “Tell her about a movie you’ve seen, or a book you’ve read. It doesn’t matter what you say, just as long as she hears your voice.”