Between Us Page 10

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Is that it?’ I laugh, and she laughs too.

  ‘Yes. That is it.’

  ‘So what’s the Iranian answer then?’

  I wander out to the lounge room as we talk. I want to make sure Dad’s not home; he usually leaves early on Sundays to help Aunty Minh at the market. I’m glad to find the house empty and quiet. I flop onto the lounge in my boxer shorts.

  ‘In Farsi we ask: Haal-e shomaa chetoreh? It is the same: how are you? But when I answer, when I am little, my father never let me say good or okay. Because he says he is asking about the feeling, you know … like, how is your heart?’

  I smile, feeling high on the sound of her voice.

  ‘My heart is happy,’ I say. ‘Happy you called.’

  ANA

  Courage seems to come easier on the phone. I ask him things I’ve wanted to know but haven’t dared to ask. Like why he always seems tense when he talks about his dad.

  He says, ‘We used to be close. But when Mum left things changed. He was really bitter, only ever mentioned her to snipe or put her down. He made me feel like I had to choose. So I chose him, of course. He was the parent who’d stayed. My sister, Lara, lives with my mum now – she moved for uni.’

  I ask, ‘Why your mother … leave?’

  ‘She wanted to find herself.’

  I have no idea what that means. What part of herself couldn’t she find at home, in the safety of Darwin, with her whole family around her? I say, ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Yeah. Me neither.’ His voice breaks slightly.

  ‘But you do not talk to her? Now?’

  ‘She calls sometimes, but I don’t pick up.’

  That makes a strange kind of sense to me. We don’t call our family in Iran anymore either. We did at first, but every time we spoke to them they were expecting good news. It was too hard to keep breaking their hearts and ours.

  I say, ‘Because it is pain?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He sounds relieved I understand.

  I ask about the girl in the photos. It’s been bugging me ever since I saw them. Who was she? And what did she mean to him?

  He tells me her name is Priya.

  ‘She was your girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You did love her?’

  There’s a pause. He says, ‘I thought I did … but maybe it was something else. After Mum left I was really down. I never wanted to go home. Lara was busy studying for Year 12, and Dad was grumpy as hell. Then Will and Mel hooked up, and suddenly there was Priya. I needed her. She saved me, really. I practically lived at her house.’

  It’s strange to hear about him so wrapped up in another girl’s life. Jealousy sears me from the inside at the easy way he describes their lives fitting together. What would it be like to live alongside Jono every day? To be an ‘us’? To have our lives enmeshed, intertwined, shared?

  JONO

  Ana is even more direct and curious on the phone than she is face to face. She asks about Priya, and I’m surprised to find that it doesn’t hurt to talk about her as much as it once did. I tell her about Priya’s parents deciding to move to Perth, and how she broke up with me weeks before she left. I’d wanted to try long distance, but she refused. Said she didn’t love me anymore, that she thought of me more as a friend.

  I say, ‘I don’t like talking about it much.’ I borrow Ana’s words: ‘Because it is pain … I guess.’

  I hear her say, ‘Yes.’

  About a month after Priya left she texted from Perth to say she’d met someone else. I tried to call her after that, but she wouldn’t even answer the phone.

  I was so low I couldn’t get out of bed for days, maybe weeks. I just listened to ‘beautiful ugly’ music and cried. In class. Over dinner. At soccer. At home. It poured out of me, uncontrollable, until Dad snapped, yelling at me to stop being so pathetic and weak.

  ‘Path-e-tic?’ says Ana.

  I want her to understand. I need her to understand.

  ‘I was just so down, you know? I was at zero.’ A term the school counsellor used at the time. It doesn’t help to clarify the situation now.

  ‘What does that mean? Zero?’ asks Ana.

  I search for another way to say it. A way that’s mine. ‘It’s when you’re so far down you can’t see the light above.’

  There’s a horrible silence on the line.

  I say, ‘Ana? Are you there?’

  If she too thinks I’m pathetic and weak I will die.

  But then I hear her voice, soft and wavering through the phone. ‘Yes. I know this place with no light. But I don’t think you are weak. I think you are brave. You wear your feelings … outside. I do not.’

  Relief and gratitude rush through me. ‘You can if you want. I mean, you can with me. I hope you know that.’

  She says, ‘Thank you’, but doesn’t say anything more.

  ANA

  Memories flood my body, so fast and deep that I might drown. I see myself …

  … being herded into a crowded minibus, by the morality policeman and his gun.

  He grabs me and shoves me forwards, yelling for me to ‘Get the fuck on!’

  Inside, one woman is wearing red lipstick, another puffs openly on a cigarette.

  They drive us to the central part of Tehran.

  The policemen shout at us: ‘You sluts!’

  ‘Why are you wearing lipstick?’

  ‘Have you been sleeping with a man?’

  Hours later, I stand in front of a judge and a priest and tell them I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not wearing any makeup or showing my hair. My mantoue is the right length.

  Omid isn’t there; he must’ve got away.

  The policemen let me go, pushing me out the back door into an empty street.

  It is 1.00am. I am completely alone.

  A man in a silver car pulls up beside me and asks how much for an hour in a hotel.

  I see a parked taxi up the road and run towards it as fast as I can.

  The driver wakes up and, luckily, is kind enough to drive me home.

  Maman weeps in relief, and thanks him over and over again, as she pays the fare …

  My mouth is open. I want to tell Jono but nothing comes out. I remember Zahra’s words. They don’t know what it’s like to be scared for their life. They will never understand what it’s like to be us.

  I tell myself that if anyone might understand, it would be this boy who wears his emotions like clothes, on the outside, for everyone to see.

  But I am not like that.

  I can’t afford to be.

  So I stay quiet.

  KENNY

  I watch for changes in Jono’s mood, just like the counsellor last year advised. But to my relief, he seems happy lately. Content. When he helps in the garden on Saturdays, he doesn’t complain as much as he used to. Sometimes he even whistles upbeat tunes as he works, melodies that I don’t recognise or know.

  His phone seems to ring more often. He disappears into his room to talk, sometimes for up to an hour. I ask who’s calling, but he just looks cagey and answers with that frustratingly all-encompassing Aussie term: ‘Mates.’

  I phone Lara for one of our regular chats. I hope I don’t sound tense, as I ask, ‘Are you at your mother’s?’

  ‘No, I’m at uni, studying …’

  I relax slightly in the knowledge that she isn’t at home with Roxanne.

  Lara continues, ‘But I can talk. What’s up?’

  I love hearing her open, friendly voice. I miss her every day. As much as I’d love to know, I never ask how she finds living with her mother. Instead, I ask about Medicine, and if she likes being in Sydney, and if the weather down there is cold.

  Today I add an extra question to the list: ‘Do you know … does Jonathan have a girlfriend?’

  ‘Not that I know of – but we haven’t talked in ages.’

  Alarm bells sound in my mind. ‘I thought you two chatted on Messenger q
uite a bit? And don’t you call him?’

  Lara sounds suddenly guilty. ‘I’ve been busy, Dad. Medicine isn’t like high school.’

  ‘Of course.’

  When I hang up, I have a queasy feeling in my gut.

  If he hasn’t been talking to Lara, then who’s been calling him on the phone?

  ANA

  ‘Where have you been?’ Maman looks up from her mattress on the floor, as I enter the room.

  ‘Talking … to a friend.’ I don’t tell her the friend’s name or say it was on the phone. I call Jono quite often now – mostly on the weekends, but sometimes after school. When my scheduled hour suits, I phone during my computer time so Maman doesn’t find out. Other days I lie and tell her I’m going to study with Zahra.

  Today, she is too preoccupied to ask any more. ‘You missed dinner. I had to take Arash. Which was lucky because we got this.’ She waves a visit slip in my direction. ‘Tom, our case manager, is finally coming. Tomorrow at 3.30pm. You’ll have to skip school.’

  ‘No.’ The word shoots out of me before I even realise it is there. ‘I’ll be back in time. The bus gets in at three twenty-five.’

  But Maman shakes her head. ‘We can’t risk it.’

  I always go to appointments with her: the doctor, the counsellor, the lawyer, Tom. She’s terrified she won’t understand something important if I’m not there. Most times they provide an interpreter but sometimes they’re just on speaker phone, not even in the room. And, anyway, Maman doesn’t trust them like she trusts me.

  I say, ‘Maman, I’ll be here. I promise. Please can I go?’

  She studies me with a glow of pride. ‘It’s important to you. This school.’

  I nod, guiltily. School is important. But something else is too.

  At lunchtime Jono says, ‘Hey, I was thinking, we should video call some time. On Facetime or Skype … do you have either of those on the computers?’

  I hesitate. It’s not that we don’t have the programs or aren’t allowed; Maman uses Skype to talk to Abdul every other day. But if I start calling Jono from the computer room, someone is bound to notice and tell Maman. The room is always full.

  So I say, ‘It is the same as we talk on the phone.’

  ‘Sure … but this way I could see your face.’ I catch the hint of a blush beneath his tanned skin.

  I’m touched, but there’s no way I can agree. ‘The cameras are not on … on the computers.’

  ‘I can tell you how to fix that –’

  ‘No! I mean, we are not allowed. The cameras are not allowed.’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘Same reason as we are not allowed to put photos on Facebook. Zahra says … they don’t want people to know … to know us … to know we are here.’

  He looks at me, and it is like he sees straight into my soul. ‘Well, they failed. ’Cause I know you.’

  I am in a basement in central Tehran, with my whole body pressed up against Omid. Our lips mash together, and my heart races as his hands explore. I feel them over my belly, my breasts, my nipples, my bum. Around us, people are dancing, talking, kissing, laughing, singing.

  The rapper up the front yells for us to all join in for the chorus. We all scream the words together; they are lyrics mocking a famous Imam. The chant turns to shouts and screams midway through.

  The morality police pluck people from the crowd, lining the boys up on one side of the room, and the girls on the other.

  They smell our breath for alcohol, one by one. Omid is taken before me.

  This time, the judge and priest don’t send me home.

  I feel the the whip cut into the flesh on my back, again and again and again and again …

  I jump, as Jono touches my arm.

  ‘What are you thinking about? Sometimes you get this look. It makes me nervous.’

  There is concern in his eyes, but I pull back. Away.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It is nothing.’

  KENNY

  I see the girl’s mother scolding her, as they hurry down the path. The little brother sprints ahead. The girl practically has to skip to keep up. As they near the meeting room, a young blonde woman peers out the door. I haven’t seen her before, but she has a pass around her neck. A new case manager. They’re getting younger all the time. This one couldn’t be long out of university.

  I feel the familiar sting of regret. I’d never admit it to Minh but sometimes I wish I hadn’t dropped out. If I’d stuck at it, where would I be now? I know one thing: I wouldn’t be here.

  I startle as I hear a voice behind me.

  ‘Afghan Catherine Zeta-Jones. She’s a looker, huh?’ I turn to see Rick grinning.

  When I look back, the mother and boy have disappeared into the room. The girl pauses to close the door behind them, and catches sight of me across the yard. Her face lights up and she waves. The gesture is both pleased and familiar. I cringe.

  Rick frowns. ‘Wait – the daughter? You serious? You better be careful there. She’s pretty, okay? But she’s what – sixteen? Seventeen? Illegal in more ways than one.’

  ‘It’s not like that –’

  ‘Sure, sure.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  He shrugs. ‘Fine. But whatever you do, don’t give ’em special treatment or you’re screwed. Like Fiona – you know why she got fired? She was giving out extra … what do you call ’em? You know, women’s stuff. Sanitary napkins – handing them out left, right and centre. Detainees found out she was a soft touch, of course. They were probably just bunging it on, asking for extras to sell on the black market. And she was sacked over it.’

  His story makes me squirm. There’s no way I can afford to lose this job.

  ‘I don’t even know that girl,’ I say. ‘Maybe she thought I was someone else.’

  But it sounds unconvincing, even to me.

  ANA

  Maman stares at the young blonde woman sitting across the desk, then asks in Farsi, ‘Who is that?’

  The question is directed at me, but the interpreter jumps in. Her name is Habibeh; we’ve had her before. She says, ‘This is Eliza Moore. She’s a new case manager.’

  Eliza extends a hand.

  Maman shakes it warily, and asks, ‘Where is Tom?’

  Eliza gives us a small nervous smile. ‘Oh, sorry. Tom’s on long service leave. They didn’t tell you?’

  ‘No.’ Maman scratches at the red polish on her nails, a sure sign she’s nervous. I understand her concern. Eliza is the third case manager we’ve had since arriving at Wickham Point, and can’t be more than five years older than me. She is slender, with short-cropped hair and an easy smile.

  She says, ‘I’m picking up a lot of Tom’s cases. I just started work for the Department. I’m from Melbourne originally. Not used to this heat.’ She laughs nervously and hurries on. ‘But I’m happy to be here, and it’s great to meet you, Fatemeh … and Anahita … and you must be Arash.’ She smiles at him, and Arash climbs eagerly from my lap to hers. She laughs again. ‘Oh, hello! You’re very friendly, aren’t you?’ She unwraps his little arms from around her neck and props him on one knee. ‘You can stay there if you want, but I’m going to talk to your mum, okay?’ She jiggles him up and down. He giggles happily and Eliza beams at me and Maman. ‘Now, tell me. How have you been feeling lately?’

  Habibeh finishes translating, and there’s a deafening silence. I can guess what Maman’s thinking: what does this new woman mean for our case? And what happened to the application we lodged with Tom to get Abdul here from Nauru?

  Eliza consults the page in front of her. ‘Let’s see: medical issues. How are they going at the moment? I mean, Fatemeh, you’re pregnant, obviously … are you feeling okay? This says you were transferred here with pre-eclampsia. High blood pressure. Have you seen your doctor lately?’

  I answer for Maman. ‘Last Wednesday.’

  ‘Great. And what about your lawyer?’

  ‘We have a letter, but they are in Sydney and cannot come.’


  Maman erupts in a stream of Farsi. ‘My boyfriend, Abdul, is on Nauru. He’s the baby’s father. I need him here. We lodged so many requests with Tom. And this baby is due in just a few weeks. I need Abdul here for the birth. Please. I can’t, I won’t have the baby if he’s not here.’

  It is devastating to hear her empty threats and desperate pleas. She’s been strong for me and Arash. But now her fear rains down on us, like a Darwin storm, ferocious and wild.

  Eliza listens to the translation. Her eyes fill with tears. I can’t help but stare; none of our other case managers have shown much emotion at all. She dabs at her eyes, then looks through the papers in front of her yet again. ‘I can see here you have an application in for family reunion. That’s a start and, even with the criminal charge against him, I’d say you have a good case with the baby due so soon. I’ll try to escalate it, okay?’

  Maman clings to this drop of hope, so grateful she begins to weep.

  The sound of her sobs makes my chest contract. I see myself …

  … sitting in a lukewarm bath, knees tucked into my chest.

  The water around me is tinged with blood, and the cuts on my back sting.

  I can hear Maman and Abdul arguing down the hall.

  Maman is crying. ‘We have to leave. I’m scared I’m going to lose her. Or lose you. Or Arash.’

  I pull out the plug. The crimson water gurgles as it swirls down the drain …

  My breath is shallow and my chest feels like it is going to explode.

  I need to talk to someone.

  I need to let this out.

  The meeting finally ends.

  Back in our room, Maman rants about the baby and Abdul and how she can’t believe this is happening all because he punched a stupid wall on Nauru.

  I wait until she has her back to me, then slide my phone card out of my Science book into my hand.

  I edge towards the door. ‘Maman. I’ll be right back, okay?’

  She barely hears, but Arash looks at me with eager eyes. ‘I want to come, Ana!’