by Robyn Bavati
“Hi, Jamie,” Katie says. “How’s your mum?”
“Doing well.”
“And how’s Oscar doing?” Terry asks.
The small talk continues a few minutes longer. Hayley sits down opposite me. As she picks up the glass of juice in front of her, she looks right at me. “Hello,” she says. She turns away again and I’m left wondering whether I imagined it.
“Hi, Hayley. Good to see you.”
She doesn’t answer, and makes no further effort to communicate with me, though she does tell her father she wants a biscuit.
I finish my juice. “I’d better be going.”
Zara and I hold hands as we walk to the end of her street.
“It’s great that Hayley’s talking,” I say.
“Yeah,” she agrees. “Every day, she communicates a little more. I guess that means she’s back on track. For now, anyway. We never know when her next setback will be.”
Zara sighs. “My heart aches for her sometimes.”
I squeeze her hand. I know exactly how that heartache feels.
“Still, I’m optimistic,” she continues, sounding hopeful. “Often, people on the spectrum lead very full lives. As adults, I mean. I guess it’s the same for people with an intellectual disability. Some of them manage to hold down jobs and live independently.”
“Some do,” I agree, “but I think, at least for those with DS, that only happens when other people enable success.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they might be able to live in their own house, get to work on their own and do their own shopping, but only because they’ve been taught what to do, how to get to work, and where the shops are. If you placed them in an unfamiliar environment, I’m not sure they’d be able to cope.”
“So what you’re saying is, they can’t be completely independent.”
“Exactly.”
“But in a way,” Zara says, “no one is. To some extent, we all rely on other people. We all need support.”
“That’s true,” I say.
I contemplate this as we walk on in silence. No one is entirely self-sufficient. Everyone struggles. It’s just that with Oscar and Hayley, the struggles are more visible. Oscar can never blend in; he always stands out. And people make assumptions about him. They underestimate what he can do.
But there are more important things than being smart – like being kind and generous and able to love. We need intelligence to survive, but intelligence isn’t a moral achievement, it’s a gift.
We reach the end of the street and I turn to Zara. Without saying a word we move closer together. A moment later, our arms are wrapped around each other, and we’re hugging each other so tightly we can’t even speak.
Then we’re kissing again and I still can’t believe how amazing it feels.
After a while, I pull away.
“What?” asks Zara.
“Oscar and Hayley might never experience . . . this.” They may never know romantic love.
Zara shrugs. “Then again, they might. We can’t predict their future. No one can.”
She’s right again. I pull her towards me. We’re back to kissing, and I don’t think of anything. There’s nothing but Zara. Zara and this moment. Only this.
Back from soccer, Oscar is flipping the pages of his calendar as he counts aloud. “Ninety-one,” he says. “Ninety-one days till my end-of-year concert.” He keeps on talking but I’m barely listening. I’m thinking about Zara: her hair, her skin, her fierce intelligence, her bottomless eyes. For the first time ever, I have a girlfriend I really like. I wish Dad could meet her.
There are times I forget. Then the sadness of missing Dad returns and with it guilt, as if it’s wrong to feel happy when Dad no longer can.
Later, lying in bed, I remember what Dan said at school when he quoted Mr Patterson – that it takes strength to ask for help, to admit that you’re struggling.
Do I have that strength? It’s been more than ten months since Dad died, and whenever people have tried to help, I’ve made excuses. I’ve brushed them off. But with all that’s happened since, I know I should admit that I’m struggling and do something about it.
On the surface, life’s going well. Mum’s getting better every day and Aunt Selena is here to support us. I’ve got the most amazing girlfriend and a loving brother.
But I’m still having nightmares – about Dad and Mum and Oscar and Dan.
There’s so much I don’t know. So much I don’t understand, about myself and others.
I can’t lose myself (and find myself) through art like Zara does, but I can speak. Maybe it’s time to talk about what’s bothering me.
I’m sitting on a wooden chair, waiting outside Mr Patterson’s room. I’m not sure what to do with my hands. Mr Patterson is still with a student. I twist and fidget. Finally, the door opens and I stand up quickly, clumsily. I almost collapse when Chandler comes out. He’s the last person I’d ever expect would see the counsellor or admit needing help.
I wait for him to say something like, “Hey, Anderson, how’s the retard?”, but for the first time in years, he says nothing. Then I notice his red-rimmed eyes. Chandler’s been crying. He sees me but pretends not to. He’s ashamed of being seen here, of being caught out, and I realise – he’s vulnerable, too. He’ll never refer to this moment, but he’ll never forget it.
Yet he’s here seeking help.
I turn back to Mr Patterson’s room, knock on the door.
“Come in.” Mr Patterson’s voice is deep and strong. He sounds dependable.
I do what I should I have done months ago. I take a deep breath, and enter.
The worst of winter is over. In Trent Street, the crabapple trees have started to blossom.
When I get home from school, the house smells of cinnamon and freshly baked bread. It’s been ten days since Mum came home from the rehabilitation hospital in Brighton. Selena helped ease Mum’s transition into daily routine, but she left this morning, promising to come again next month. Apart from a few memory lapses, Mum’s mostly fine. She’s even started seeing clients.
Oscar’s in the kitchen drinking almond milk, a half-eaten cinnamon bun on the table in front of him. I grab another one from the batch on the bench, inhale the heavenly aroma and take a bite. When I’ve scoffed two buns washed down with a glass of milk, I find Mum in her office.
“Hi, how was school?”
“Okay,” I say, “though I do miss sitting next to Dan. Now that he’s swapped classes, I only see him at lunchtimes.”
“You know, you could swap too. You don’t have to take on the extra workload, especially after what you’ve been through. Do you want to switch classes?”
“I think I’ll stick with it. I like the challenge.”
“I like challenges too.” Mum stands up, walks over to me, touches her hand to my cheek. “I’m so proud of you, Jamie. The way you looked after Oscar.”
“It wasn’t easy. It made me appreciate you, and all that you do. That party we had –”
“He hasn’t stopped talking about that party.”
“I had – have – such mixed feelings about him. I don’t know whether to be happy or sad. And it makes me wonder, what’s it like for you?”
Mum strokes my hair. “I know what you’re asking. Does the grief persist? Does the pain go away?”
I nod. She understands what I’m asking better than I do.
“After Oscar was born, I cried every day for over a year – even though, or perhaps because, I loved him so much. Then gradually, I came to understand that he could still have a good life, a happy life, despite having DS. And I’m okay with that. More importantly, I feel fulfilled.” Mum takes a breath, considers her words. “The sadness and grief – it doesn’t prey on me, it’s not what I think about daily, but it never really goes away. Sometimes, it hits me, like a punch in the gut. The overwhelming, unbearable pain.”
I think I know what she means.
“But Jamie,” Mum continues, “I’m s
o glad I have Oscar. He brings me such joy.”
I put my arms around her and hug her tightly. She hugs me back.
“As a life coach,” she says, “I see a lot of suffering. I had one patient whose daughter was a drug addict and another whose son was so depressed he became suicidal. And it made me realise – disability isn’t the worst thing.”
“No, it isn’t,” I agree.
I think about everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. How I almost lost Mum. “It’s a miracle that you’re alive.”
“And I’m grateful for it every day.” Mum picks up a tissue and dabs at her eyes. “I keep wondering what might have happened to Oscar if he’d been in the car. You not only looked after him, you very probably saved his life.”
No way can I take credit for that. It’s not as if I knew about the accident before it happened.
“I missed you so much when you were gone. And I still miss Dad.”
“I know you do, Jamie. I miss him too.”
I glimpse the wall behind Mum and my eyes fall on one of the quotes:
Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened. Dr Seuss.
“Mum, do you smile when you think of Dad?”
She glances behind her at the quote, then turns back to me. “It’s wise advice,” she says, “but I’m not quite there yet.”
“Neither am I. Dad was the best, wasn’t he?”
This time Mum does smile – a small, nostalgic smile. “Yeah, he was.”
“Remember when he took me and Dan on that three-day camping trip?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“He taught us how to fish, build a campfire, pitch a tent.” We keep on talking, and for the first time since he died, it doesn’t feel like I’m opening the wound or making it bigger. Maybe I’m beginning to heal.
It’s a warm Sunday in late November. Though the school year hasn’t officially ended, exams are over. I’m sitting in the living room texting Zara and Oscar is colouring in his new mandala colouring book as he watches TV.
“Jamie, can you give me a hand?”
I follow the sound of Mum’s voice and enter her bedroom. Dad’s wardrobe is open, his scent still strong.
I take a deep breath and help Mum toss underwear and socks into a bin bag, then carry it to the wheelie bin outside.
When I return, Mum is folding jumpers, shirts and pants. “No point hanging on to these. They might as well go to someone who needs them.” She stops mid-fold. “Is there anything you’d like to keep?”
All of it, thinks the part of me that still wants to believe he’s coming back.
“No,” I say. “Dad’s clothes are all too big for me.”
Then I notice his guitar, half-hidden on the bed by his jacket and jeans. “I want to keep this.” I pick it up gently.
“You don’t play,” says Mum.
“Not yet. But I remember everything Dad taught me. It’s a matter of practice.” I sit on the bed and hold the guitar carefully, experimentally.
“I’ve missed the sound of that guitar,” says Mum.
My fingers seek out the chords to “House of the Rising Sun”. It comes back quickly, easily. The strings dig into the soft pads of my fingertips, but I don’t mind the pain. I have the feeling Dad is with me, that he always will be.
After a few minutes of playing, I take the guitar into the living room, return it to its hook on the wall.
“What are you doing?” asks Oscar.
“Putting this back where it belongs.” Oscar looks down at his colouring book and I go back to helping Mum.
Soon, the wardrobe is empty. Mum drapes Dad’s overcoat over her arm and we carry bags of his clothes to her car.
As I open the boot, Mum buries her nose in Dad’s coat, inhaling his smell. For a second, she seems lost in time. Then she snaps back to the present, lays the clothes lovingly across the back seat of the car, shuts the door. “I’ll take all this to the charity shop. It closes at noon. Keep an eye on Oscar, will you?”
She must see the flicker of doubt in my eyes.
“Don’t worry, Jamie. I’ll come straight back.”
“Do you want Oscar and me to come with you?”
“No, I think I need to do this alone. Thanks for asking.” She hugs me quickly and gets in the car.
I head back inside.
“It’s my concert tonight,” Oscar says. “Will you come?”
“Of course.”
Mum keeps her word. Less than twenty minutes later, she’s home.
The auditorium is packed. Zara is sitting on one side of me, Mum on the other, next to Aunt Selena, who is here for a visit. At the back of the stage, the words NEW HAVEN SPECIAL SCHOOL are projected in large letters onto a screen.
The school principal climbs the steps to the stage and taps the microphone. A hush falls over the audience. “Welcome students, families and friends,” she begins. “I acknowledge the traditional owners of this land, the Boon Wurrung people of the Kulin Nation.”
This is an all-inclusive event. The lights in the auditorium stay on and the doors remain open, enabling easy access in and out of the theatre.
“Thank you all for coming. Sit back, relax and enjoy the show as we celebrate our wonderful students.”
It begins with a slideshow of every student, including those who have chosen not to be in the concert. The audience applaud each one.
When the slideshow is over, taped music starts up. The concert begins.
The performers enter the stage and peer into the audience, trying to locate their families. Oscar looks around until he sees us, grins and waves.
He is one of a group who dance in rows and in circles, executing the moves at roughly the same time. Oscar is in his element. He can’t stop smiling. I’m happy for him. He’s put a lot of time and effort into learning the steps.
The show continues. Some students sing, some dance, some play musical instruments. Just a few have speaking parts.
Soon Oscar is back again, playing the drums as part of a band.
The third time Oscar comes on stage, he mumbles the words to a song, along with a few rows of other students and a recorded singer.
He’s in four different items, the last another round of dancing.
For a moment, the stage is empty. Then one by one, the entire cast come onto the stage till all the performers are up there, six rows deep. In a grand finale, they dance and sing. A few look lost, but most are beaming like Oscar, who is never happier than when on stage.
As the audience clap and sing along, I glance around me. There’s a smile on every face. On stage, row by row, the cast take their bows.
The audience goes wild and the atmosphere in the auditorium is electric.
Mum, Aunt Selena, Zara and I get to our feet along with the rest of the audience. We give the kids on stage a standing ovation.
Tonight is a validation of each and every one of them, a tribute to their uniqueness.
A celebration.
It’s midday the following Sunday. I down a glass of orange juice, grab my wallet and house key.
“Where are you going?” Oscar asks.
“To see Dan perform.”
“Can I come?”
I hesitate. “Not this time, bro.”
“You can’t go anyway,” says Mum. “You wouldn’t get back in time for Jason’s party.”
“I’ll take you to the movies instead,” I promise. “Either next Sunday or the one after.”
“Help me do some weeding,” says Mum.
“Okay,” says Oscar.
“Bye, bro.” I hold up my hand to high-five him, then head out, past our neat front garden, our freshly mown lawn.
I meet Zara at the station and an hour later we enter the Trades Hall building in Carlton, holding hands. We follow the signs to the room with Platform 15 ¾ scrawled on the chalkboard next to the door.
Rows of chairs are set up inside, most of the eighty or so seats already taken. We find two empty ones near the back. I pick up the pro
gram, glance down the list of performers till I see Dan’s name.
It’s not long till the show begins. The MC – a kid oozing confidence – steps onto the stage. “Welcome to Platform 15 ¾, where kids aged fifteen to eighteen showcase their talents. Please switch off your phones or risk being dragged to the stage and publicly humiliated.” Laughter ripples through the audience. “Don’t say you weren’t warned!” This boy is good – upbeat and professional. “Now, give me some noise.” The kids in the audience whoop and cheer. “You call that noise? You can do better than that.” The whooping and cheering increases. “Okay! That’s what I want to hear for every performer.”
The show is divided into five-minute segments – twelve acts in all. Dan is on fifth, after a group of rappers, a spoken-word artist performing non-rhyming poetry, a female comedian and another poet, all thought-provoking and entertaining. I’m amazed by how good they are.
“And now,” the MC announces with a theatrical flourish, “for our next performer, a wonderful, talented comedian who is no stranger to Platform 15 ¾. Please welcome Dan Nguyen.”
The audience goes wild as Dan makes his entrance. Zara lets out a wolf whistle so loud it nearly bursts my eardrums.
Everyone falls silent as Dan begins: “Hi, I’m Dan, and I was born in Melbourne. But people still ask me where I’m from. What they mean is, where are your parents from?”
Around me, people are grinning and nodding, because so many different backgrounds are represented here – Anglo-European, African, Asian, Polynesian, European, Aboriginal.
“You might think that ethnic stereotyping no longer occurs,” Dan continues, “but you’d be wrong. When people hear I’m of Vietnamese heritage, they’re pretty sure I eat household pets. I like to encourage their misconceptions. ‘Hide your cats and dogs,’ I say.
“Unfortunately, some stereotyping hits close to home. My mum is the stereotypical Asian mum who wants her only child to be a doctor. After months of sleepless nights and guilt-stricken days, I said, ‘Mum, I’m sorry if it breaks your heart, but I’m not going to study medicine. I’m planning to study politics instead.’ ‘Really?’ she said. ‘You want to be a politician?’ I said, ‘No way! I want to be a comedian. But I want to sound intelligent and informed when I make fun of politicians.’”
