Sydney's Song (33 page)

“Yes,” Dad agreed, brashly optimistic. “You will.”

We reached Boston late after ugly traffic. They still allowed us in at the hospital because I was allowed in at all hours. I needed to check on Pete for a few minutes, or I would suffer a major worry all night. “See? He's fine,” Dad smiled. “No harm done.”

Dad stayed the whole week, and, sunny Aussie bloke that he was, he managed to charm Pete's family. Afterwards he left for a North Sea exploration site off Scotland's Aberdeen. He was starting his own consultant company in exploration geophysics, assisting oil companies around the globe. For the rest of the year he was also booked to lecture in several world universities.

A few afternoons later Mum and Ettoré turned up too.

After all the hugs and kisses she took me to a hair salon and told the stylist, “Please dye her hair like this,” she pointed to her own hair. “Exactly the same colour as this.”

“Why?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“Look at you,” Mum whirled me to face the mirror, pointing to the grey strands I had been ignoring. “You wouldn't want Pete to regain awareness and find an old hag,” she coaxed. “Would you now?”

“
Well
…”

“And please cut it in layers around her face like this,” Mum pointed a picture of a model on the wall to the stylist.

“No,” I objected. “Pete doesn't want me to cut my hair.”

“Keep the length,” my bossy Mum ordered. “But cut the sides fashionably stylish.”

Through the mirrors I watched Mum and Ettoré sitting behind me while the stylist worked on my hair. They spoke quietly, heads together conspiring, and I had the feeling that they were truly close.

I observed that when Mum was talking with Ettoré, she was not all mighty and bossy. She was not in her here-I-come-all-capable-andI'll-solve-all-your-problems mode. She was—feminine, sort of.Sweet, even. I could see it in her expression and body language.

Maybe Ettoré was just who she needed, since during her marriage to Dad everybody relied on her to be the family's problem solver and law enforcer. She had not been given the chance to express her femininity. Looking back, I wondered whether Mum had resented being married to Dad for this reason. Dad was kind of a happy big boy who never grew up to become a mature man, forever playful and going on adventures, taking her for granted at home.

And savvy Ettoré was good for her. He was good to her.

They had taken rooms at a posh hotel next to MGH and I was to stay with them for the week. We had a fancy dinner at a hip restaurant nearby, and they escorted me back to the hospital afterwards. Pete's family was still there on their evening visit and I made the introductions. To my surprise, Eve extended a dinner invitation to all of us.

When we dined at her apartment the next evening, her mom was not present but her dad and brother were there. Lance shared Pete's height and lithe build, but with ruddy complexion and brown hair.Their dad Clive was an older, brown-haired version of Pete. He usually came to look at Pete near the end of the visiting hours and greeted me on arrival, but then his wife would steer him away to chat about… exam papers!

“I want to thank Sydney for being so caring to Pete. And Sydney's family for being supportive,” Eve told the table after civilised getting-acquainted conversation. “Now, where's it going from here?”

For a long time everybody was quiet. Then Ettoré—linking hands with Mum, I noticed—spoke, “We've given Sydney one year to defer uni. The evaluation will hinge on Pete's condition.” He stopped and looked at me. “For now, for what it's worth, how can we help you, Sydney?”

I was speechless.

Mum was watching me with glazed eyes. At that moment her love for me hit me with full force. And tears welled up in my own eyes.

“How can we help you, Sydney?” Lance asked with an affable smile.

“How can we help you, Sydney?” everybody else took their cue.

Some of the weight that I had not even realised burdening me was immediately lifted from my shoulders. I could breathe easier. Their sympathy would not help bringing Pete back to me, but nonetheless I was overwhelmed by their sincerity.

So far I had discovered that I had an aptitude for mental work. I had enough courage to tackle long, difficult hardships and see things through. Yet no matter how you relied on your own competence and fortitude, kindness from others lifted your mood. Waiting was the hardest thing to do, especially without a guarantee of the outcome.As you fight to show the world a convincing bravado, the affection of others eased your inner sorrow.

“Go out more,” Mum looked into my eyes that night. She shifted my newly dyed hair and let the long strands slide between her fingers. “Do shopping, and whatever other girls usually do. Don't worry about using the credit card.”

But I was not inspired to shop.

She took me to a concert at NEC. There, immersed in magical music, I imagined Pete when he had been among the performers, but soon the memories of my birthday flooded in. My eyes closed. I could hear my love's recital. The thrilling strains of his violin. The exuberance. Searching. Intimate.
Sydney, I'll love until I die
… As pain pierced me like hell, I prayed an earnest plea for my love's recovery.

Mum placed her chin on my shoulder when she hugged me goodbye and confessed, “We let you come here to find closure between you and Pete, so you could move on with your life. We hoped you'd see Pete's condition firsthand, come to your senses, and give up on your own. But after Harry told me how miserable you were, we came here to reprimand you and bring you back home with us. Yet looking at your grey hair, there was no way I could do it. I don't have the heart to separate you from your love.”

“I
love
him, Mum…” my voice trembled. “Thank you. I feel so much closer to you than ever. Thanks for everything.”

“So you'll wear the Manolo Blahniks now?”

“No! No way!”

Summer replaced the cold spring of Boston. I jogged along the park's lakeside, wondering whether Bronson missed me. He was with his siblings at Lauren's and Angus'. I missed him. But teeming with life and vivacity, the world was cheerier. There were children escaping the heat by fountains. Tourists shopping. Locals playing. I noticed fascinating objects for photography.

My grandparents came down from Vancouver. They visited for a fortnight, during which Nanna tried her best to spoil me with Canadian dishes. And no, not just with pancakes and maple syrup.

I took many photos of her and her cooking. I did not know how she did it in my limited kitchenette, but she could make even the simplest food special. Yup.
Poutine
it was, Canadian fries and gravy, but with the world's best gravy and roast beef. One day she knocked on my neighbour's door with a plate of butter tarts (“I caught him looking our way, his nose must be curious.”). I took some to the hospital and the nurses swore I was an angel. Another day we had a picnic of
tourtière
among the weeping willows in the nearby Public Garden.Nanna regaled me with stories of Mum growing up. I asked her about herself and Grandpa—the love story.

Eve took me girlie shopping at Macy's and Filene's in Downtown Crossing, where she shopped and complained about my disinterest in shopping. She took me to watch comedy flicks at “Loew's Theatres across from Boston Common, which was walking distance from my studio. She had a membership to a gym and once a week she took me there too, complaining that her Jewish hubby jogged in the street because it saved him $600 a year. After the gym she regularly took me to restaurants in the North End.

“At least I have the good sense to exercise first,” she said, savouring a fiery Spanish dish. Restaurants in the North End were amazing, no wonder they contributed to make Boston famous. Very expensive, but just wonderful to eat at. “I
love
eating.”

“Pete says we should learn to cook the food we love. Wouldn't you economise when you cook instead of eating out? Callum would love you more.”

She laughed. As she sipped her iced tea, she asked, “Hey, do you know what they call a male tea bag when you put it in hot water?”

I shook my head, puzzled.

“Hebrews!”

I laughed. Eve told me some more jokes about her mixed-faith marriage. I hoped they would be forever happy and promote interfaith tolerance. This world of ours sure needs it.

“You're very special, Sydney,” she told me one night as we came out of AMC cinema at Harvard Square with her husband after watching a horror movie. This time, instead of watching a comedy, we had been screaming ourselves happy. Scared to death and loving it. Callum was complaining that his ears were nearly deaf and he had our nail marks on his arms. “You're the sister I never had. I've always wanted to have a sister.”

“Same here.”

“When I was little, I was disappointed each time a baby brother was born.”

As we walked among the bustling tourists and academics I asked Callum, “Don't you have a sister?”

He shook his curly head.

“He has brothers,” his wife complained. “I already have brothers.”

Thus Eve and I embarked on what we called a ‘sistership'. Light-hearted and friendly sisterhood minus sibling fights. She was fun and entertainingly clever.

Sunny Lance had taken me roaming the many museums of this highly cultural city. I told him I had visited The Museum of Science only—as it was very close to the hospital. So he took me to the fascinating Museum of Fine Arts, Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, and the Harvard Art Museum. Lance was an amazing guy who could fall asleep any time he set himself to. He wouldn't waste even five minutes waiting for something without falling into a micro sleep. In the bus. In the subway. On the hospital couch. He was obsessed with sleeping and did so every chance he could.

“How can you do that, Lance? Falling asleep anytime you will it?”

“Just sit in front of the computer all night,” he said helpfully. Go figure.

Fortunately he was attentive when awake. One Saturday morning he showed up at my studio early while I was still in “pyjamas”. His eyes glazed when he recognised Pete's T-shirt. Quietly he left and came back with a whole stack more of Pete's shirts for me. I looked up at the ceiling… some dirt bothering my eyes.

That day he took me to watch the Red Sox in action at Fenway Park and introduced me to his many friends, kids from various racial backgrounds.

“We've heard much about you from Pete,” a golden-eyed cutie declared.

“Miguel,” I took a shot. “You play bass.”

“Wow. Or—yeay! I'm known in Australia,” he crowed with a pleased smile. “He told you about us?”

A black kid with friendly eyes interjected, “Did he also tell you Miguel is a Spanish don who loves many girls?” Miguel only grinned at this teasing. “And who am I, Sydney?”

“Ashleigh. Guitarist.”

“Derek here,” a machoish boy joined in. “Think The Sox will win?”

They were so fanatical about baseball, just like us and cricket.Eagerly they taught me the rules so I could join them cheering and jeering. In this festive atmosphere, among the loud crowd, the enthusiasm was infectious. And I swear, to win people's hearts here all I had to do was wish The Sox to win.

After the game Gilang, with the G as in ‘grass', invited us to his house. He was an international student who lived alone, and his“house” made me blink. An ornate mansion overlooking the water, it had a music room filled with musical instruments for a modern band.

“Mom doesn't approve of kids' music,” Lance said. “She kinda looks down on my pals ‘cause we play rock ‘n roll. Come, Sydney, which instrument do you play?”

“Nothing.”

“Don't be shy. We're all amateurs here. No symphony player among us.”

“Honestly. I don't play at all.”

He stared at me with comic disbelief before throwing his head back, laughing merrily.

“Super!” he whooped. “Mom can't stand anyone who doesn't play the classics. You can't imagine what I've had to suffer, having my talented brother flaunted in front of my nose all my life. But you don't play even a bit? How brave of Pete to choose you. I like you, Sydney!”

“Don't be annoyed with Pete for what he is,” I defended Pete. “He never brags. I've never known anyone who knows Pete to dislike him.”

“Agreed,” he said easily. “It's Mom who always compares us.”

The friends, six of them, played like a professional rock band. I enjoyed their feel-good music. Lance, son of a piano teacher that he was, played the piano well but he preferred the drum. Gilang himself was rather good on saxophone. The main singers were Ashleigh and Irish Sean who played the keyboard. These two delighted us with their very different voices and lovely duet, but basically everyone in the “band” loved to join in the singing as well. And me? I was the water girl. Of course.