Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful (9 page)

“Feel like braving the Boxing Day sales with me?” asks Mum the next morning. “I need to get a few things for hospital.”

A huge wave of guilt washes over, knocking me off my I'm-in-love-for-the-first-time cloud. Of course I should go shopping with Mum; it's what any decent daughter would do, without hesitation.

I hesitate. “Um …”

“Do you already have plans?”

“Well, I was going to get started on that big spring-clean,” I say, grabbing the easy out she's offering me. “But if you'd prefer …”

Mum shakes her head. “Oh no, we made a deal, and I wouldn't want to be responsible for you not holding up your end of it. I'll manage on my own.”

The wave of guilt turns into a tsunami. Instead of the leisurely toast-and-email breakfast I'd intended, I get a duster and a roll of garbage bags and head straight back to my room.

The first thing I do is move Boris to the laundry basket so I can change my sheets and put my new quilt on the bed. It really does look good. If I focus on the bed and ignore the stuffed toys and wombats and school junk around it, it looks like the room of someone who's mature enough to be in love.

I ball up my old quilt and stuff it into a garbage bag to take to the charity shop. Next, I turn my attention to my bookshelf, which is so packed full of doodads and knick-knacks that I've had to start piling my actual books on the floor next to it. I get out a second garbage bag – one destined for the bin – and throw in my exercise books from primary school, the lumpen paperweight I made in Year Seven pottery class, the jar of bath salts Gran gave me for my tenth birthday that were too pretty to use and have now solidified into one big pink chunk, and the candle stubs Kate and I collected with the intention of melting them down into new candles when we went through our crafts phase in Year Nine. Into the charity bag goes my novelty eraser collection, the twenty-four colour pencil set I haven't used since primary school and every novel I've been forced to read for high school English.

When I get to the wombats that line my windowsill I hesitate. They're not garbage – aside from a layer of dust they're in mint condition – but I can't quite bring myself to throw them in the charity bag, either. I solve the problem by putting them on the shelf at the top of my wardrobe, where they won't be seen. While I've got the wardrobe open, I figure I may as well chuck out the clothes I know I'm never going to wear again. I fill the remainder of the charity bag and most of another one with clothes that are too small, too frilly or just plain Not Me any more. By the time I've gone through my sock drawer, I'm down to about a quarter of the clothing I started with.

Being ruthless feels so good that I don't stop for lunch, even though my stomach is complaining loudly about not having eaten for almost twenty-four hours. Also, every time my focus strays I start thinking about Mum going into hospital tomorrow, or obsessing over Dan. It's taking all my willpower not to call him, but I'm determined to keep my inner Hysterical Girlfriend under control, at least until I'm sure of how he feels about me.

I clean off the top of my desk, putting my folders and other stuff I'll need for school next year on a now-clear shelf of my bookcase, and chucking out all the pens that don't work and dusting off the reading lamp that I don't think I've ever turned on. This year, I tell myself, I'll actually do my homework at my desk, sitting in the Deluxe Student Study Chair Mum and Dad gave me last Christmas, with the lamp on so I don't strain my eyes.

The last item in the room is my bedside table. I open the top drawer where I tend to shove anything that I don't want Mum to see when she comes in for her daily how-was-school chat. The top layer is mementos of the past few months: movie ticket stubs and the good luck card Siouxsie made me for the exams and a leaf I tore off Our Tree the day after Dan and I first kissed. I put them to one side. The second layer is stuff from months ago, mainly notes scribbled in classes. I don't bother opening them but I catch words here and there as I throw them into the bin bag: “sooooooo bored” in Kate's loopy, sloping handwriting, “fat, ugly” in Belinda's textbook-neat cursive, “le garçon cute” in Brianna's signature purple biro. Out they all go, the remnants of another girl's life.

On top of the bedside table, I line up the time capsule photo next to the one of me and Dan. Mum's locket is sitting in front of them, where I left it when I came to bed last night. I pull the long chain over my head, feeling the locket's comforting weight as it rests against my chest. In the mirror I check myself. The old-fashioned locket looks weird hanging below the shiny plectrum Dan gave me, but good weird. Like two different sides of me are meeting for the first time.

It takes four trips to haul all the bags to the garage. I put the charity bags in the corner opposite Ziggy's fitness centre, where Mum's already got a pile of stuff ready to go, and chuck the rest into the bin. It's lucky it's garbage collection day tomorrow because I can hardly close the lid after I've squished the last one in. On my way back to my room I give in to my hunger pangs and make a sandwich which, since Mum's still out, I take up to my room.

Boris has migrated back to the bed. He opens one eye to give me a lazy death stare and then perks up considerably when he sees I've got food. I sit next to him, admiring the almost-Zen cleanness of my room while I eat my sandwich. If how you start your year really has an effect on how it turns out, I'm in for a doozy.

When I go downstairs to check my email I'm surprised to see Dad in the Kiss the Cook apron he usually reserves for the annual English faculty barbeque, and even more surprised to see him trying to force a lemon up the backside of a chicken.

“Don't be so rough,” says Mum. “That chook gave up its life for us to eat it – show it a bit of respect. Now, ease the skin away from the backbone to make room for the butter and herbs.”

“What's going on?” I ask.

“Your father's making dinner. I told him we've got enough left over turkey to last the rest of the week, but he insisted.”

“Roast chicken, mashed potatoes and salad,” says Dad, wincing as he slides two fingers under the chicken's skin. All of Mum's favourites. It's like a condemned man's last meal. (Vickypedia fact: the most popular last meal on death row is a cheeseburger and fries.)

“Be careful not to rip the skin or it'll dry out,” says Mum, who looks a lot more stressed than she does when she has to cook herself.

I turn on our prehistoric computer and listen to it chug slowly to life. At least I don't have to wait for the modem to dial up any more (thank you internet service provider for forcing my parents into the twenty-first century). The phone rings in the hallway and I jump from my chair to answer it, but Mum beats me to it.

I stand by the kitchen table, willing her to say, “Hello, Daniel. I'll just get Freia for you.” Instead she says, “Hi, Mum.”

“It's the third time she's called today,” whispers Dad. “I think your mum's going to take the phone off the hook soon.”

We both cock our heads towards the hallway, not that it takes any effort to hear what Mum's saying, since her voice is always louder when she's annoyed.

“Yes, I trust Dr Bynes – she's one of the leading breast surgeons in the country … I'm sure my GP wouldn't have sent me to her if she'd ever been sued for malpractice … Mum, listen to me … listen to me! I understand that you're worried, but telling me all this isn't helping. In fact, it's exactly what I don't need right now. Terence will call you tomorrow when I get out of surgery … Yes, I know. I know, Mum … I love you, too.”

Dad shoots me a raised eyebrow before opening the oven door to put the roasting pan in.

“Honestly, that woman,” says Mum, switching on the kettle. “I know she means well, but calling to tell me about her friend Maisy going into hospital for a hip replacement and waking up without her gall bladder is not helpful.” She turns to Dad. “You'll make sure they operate on the right bit of me, won't you?”

“Of course I will, love. It's your left foot, isn't it?”

“This is no time for jokes, Terence,” she says, looking genuinely worried.

“Don't let Thelma's overactive imagination get to you, Genie. If Dr Chandarama reckons Bynes is the best, then she's the best. Your mum thrives on drama, that's all.”

“I know,” sighs Mum. “Poor old duck, I guess it's hard for her to contemplate the possibility that she'll outlive me.”

The three of us stand frozen for a second before making the unanimous decision to pretend she hasn't said it. Dad gets the potatoes from the pantry. Mum makes her tea. I sit at the desk in the corner of the kitchen and log in to my email.

Despite making the leap to broadband, email is still the only way I can communicate with anyone online, since Mum's blocked Facebook and all forms of instant messaging. My friends know that our computer is in the kitchen, with the screen facing towards the middle of the room, so they're pretty careful about what they send me.

At the top of my inbox is an email from Siouxsie with the subject line
Operation Op-Shop
, sent to me, Vicky and Steph early this morning.

My heart sinks. Tomorrow's out of the question, obviously, but how do I say that? I can hardly send a casual one-liner saying Mum's having surgery. Aside from the WTF factor, I'd have to explain what's going on and why I didn't mention it when we were all together on Christmas Eve. I don't want to lie to my friends but telling them the truth doesn't feel like an option at this point.

While I'm trying to think of a plausible excuse not to go, a new message arrives. It's from Steph, saying she's working tomorrow and can we make it Wednesday instead. I reply with “Wednesday suits me” and leave it at that. At least I've bought myself an extra day.

After dinner, which is surprisingly edible, we all settle in the living room to watch the Kate Winslet version of
Sense and Sensibility
, Mum's all-time favourite film. Five minutes into it, Ziggy mutters something about his brain turning to mush and heads for the garage, followed closely by Dad, who suddenly remembers some paperwork that can't possibly wait until morning.

“Looks like it's just us girls,” says Mum, reaching under the couch cushion for her secret stash of organic fair-trade dark chocolate.

Considering it's based on a Jane Austen novel,
Sense and Sensibility
isn't a bad movie, and it only goes for a couple of hours, unlike the BBC version Ms Reid made us watch in English Extension, which is three agonising episodes long. I lie with my head in Mum's lap like I used to when I was a little kid, even though it means curling up with my knees tucked into my chest to fit on the two-seater sofa.

“Your hair's getting so long,” Mum says, stroking my head.

My eyes grow drowsy from the soothing rhythm of her hand moving from my crown to the base of my neck. So this is why Boris likes it so much, I think as I give in to it.

Mum nudges me awake when the movie finishes. “Time for bed, baby bear.”

For a moment I think I've travelled back in time and really am a little kid again. Then I look up at Mum's face and see all the lines that weren't there when I was little, and the steel grey bob that's replaced the long dark plait she used to wear, and I remember what's happening in the here and now.