The Mimosa Tree (30 page)

‘No problem,' he says. ‘I'm used to being on my own.'

I watch as Harm empties the pasta into the pot. He stares at it as though it's the most fascinating thing he has ever seen, and it is weird to me that the cooking and cleaning that I find so familiar and painfully ordinary he could find so exotic and interesting. As I am musing about this he looks up at me, grinning wide with sauce stains on his cheeks. I smile, pick up a candle and follow the music down the hallway to the bedroom.

In my dream I am walking around Harm's house, and I am looking for my mother. I search through rooms, but when I can't see her I start to look in stupid places, like the fridge, under the mat and in the fireplaces. I don't find her, I don't smell her, and nothing I touch reminds me of her. Then I realise the real problem is that she can't find
me
because I am not where I should be. I find my bag, pull it over my shoulder
and run home as fast as I can, desperate to let her know that I am not really lost.

In my dream I know my mother will be waiting for me. When I wake, however, I remember that people don't come back from being dead. No matter how much I will it or want it or scream for it, my mother won't be at home, and the idea of returning to that empty house fills me with sorrow. I turn to where Harm should be, realise that he didn't come to bed last night. I look at my things, still packed neatly into the milk crate where I put them that first night, whilst Harm's have been scattered across the floor again, clean and dirty laundry mixing unashamedly. Sighing, I go look for him.

He's not in the kitchen. I push a pair of shoes off the chair and sit down. I am shocked to see how after one day our kitchen has returned to what seems to be its natural state. This is a far cry from the clean sheets and shiny floors of my mother's house. Mess, I decide, is like an ever rising tide. If you stop filling your buckets and tossing it out the window it just keeps coming in until you're neck-deep and drowning in it. I brush my feet against the floor and there is so much dirt that it feels like sandpaper. I lean my arm on the table and it slides across something slimy which I can't identify. Nothing feels safe to touch and I curl my knees into my chest, pull my arms into my sleeves to try and protect myself.

I have a sudden longing for a vacuum cleaner. And home.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to let them know I'm okay? They did seem pretty upset. The idea of speaking to Via makes me nervous, but if I call now there is a good chance Siena will answer. I reach across and pick up the phone. Surprisingly
there is a dial tone. Slowly, hesitantly, I begin to dial.

‘Allo?'
says my aunt Via.

Shit.

In my head I am saying I'm okay, I'm okay, but nothing's coming out. Via's breathing sounds impatient; I've probably disturbed her from some important polishing or disinfecting. In the background I can hear Marco and Sera playing, laughing. And that's all it takes to get the tears falling.

‘Allo?
Allo?
' says Via again, then I hear her gasp.
‘Mira?'

I slam the phone down.

It takes me a few minutes to calm down. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, run my fingers through my hair. I picture her at home, still clutching the phone to her ear hoping to hear my voice. I'm trying to visualise a smile on her face or dreamy relief, but it's not working. I know exactly how she would look right now, and it is not pretty. If anything my phone call has made things worse. And yet, I can't call her back. If I let her voice into my head again she will have me. I know my aunt Via can drag me home with just her voice. Unable to let go of the image of Via screaming and yelling and clutching that telephone, I do what I know is the right thing. I pick up the phone again and dial quickly.

‘STOP CALLING ME YOU SLIMY CREEP!'

‘Umm, Felicia, it's Mira.'

It takes her a moment to switch gears.

‘Mira? Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else!'

‘Well, that's a relief,' and I smile because it's so rare to hear Felicia get worked up about something. Even the word ‘creep'
sounds dirty coming from her. ‘Anyone I know?'

‘Well, yes, but it's not important right now. Tell me where you are? Are you okay? Are you with Harm?'

‘I'm not with Harm,' I say and as I don't know where he is just now, this feels technically true. ‘Look, I'm okay. There is nothing to worry about. Actually that's why I called. Can you call my aunts, tell them to stop worrying?'

She pauses before speaking again. ‘Are you serious? Why don't you just call them yourself? Better still, why don't you just go home! Mira, what are you doing?'

‘I can't. Not yet. Just tell them, please? I don't want anyone crying about me anymore. Tell them to forget about me, to just get on with their lives as best as they can. I'm going to look after myself now.' My words are making me cry, but down the line I hear Felicia sigh in exasperation. I know we haven't been the best of friends lately, but I did expect a bit more sympathy. I feel like she's not taking me seriously, like she thinks she's talking to a child.

‘Mira,' she says. ‘Do you have any idea what this is doing to them? They lost their sister and now they have lost you! Have you even considered how they are feeling about you running away from home?'

I prop the phone to my ear with my shoulder then rub my eyes. Running away from home? Is
that
what I did? How can what I did be compared to a childish whim? Consider how they feel? What about me? It's easy for her to sit there and judge me, but what does she know about losing someone you love? Typical, perfect bloody Princess Felicia. Nothing bad ever happens to her.

‘Fine, don't worry about it. Why did I ever think you would understand? You've never understood a thing about me! The only people that ever mattered are Mum and Harm. Thank God I still have Harm.'

‘So you are with Harm!'

‘Yes I'm with bloody Harm. So what?'

‘You just lied to me!'

‘Whatever. It doesn't matter, okay? None of this stupid conversation matters.' I lean back in my chair, notice a strand of spaghetti dangling from the ceiling. ‘I'm sorry I bothered you. Don't talk to anyone for me, okay? I'll write them a letter. Just forget I ever called.' And I should hang up right now, but instead I find myself waiting to hear what she will say. She lets me hang there for a very long time before speaking again. When she does it's clear that she is crying, and because my grief is like a thinly covered wound, I start to cry again too. I am crying so often these days that sometimes, like now, I am not even sure what I am crying about.

‘I'm sorry, Mira. You're right. I don't know what it feels like to lose a parent, but I know how much you loved your mother. Only a fool couldn't understand how this is tearing you apart.'

She breaks down into sobs.

And suddenly I realise how much I miss her.

‘Felicia,' I whisper through my tears. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘You've got nothing to be sorry for.'

‘I don't know what's wrong with me.'

‘Just let us help you. Stop pushing everyone away.'

I can hear Harm singing and I know he is going to walk through that door any minute. It shouldn't matter, but I don't
want him to see me on the phone. I feel dirty, like I am being unfaithful somehow.

‘I have to go,' I say but my hands are gripping the phone tightly.

‘No wait! I can come and get you. We can just talk.'

I hang up the phone.

Seconds later, Harm steps in through the door. I smile at him, then turn away quickly and swipe at the wetness around my eyes.

‘Hey,' I say. ‘Where have you been?'

‘Outside,' he says with a go-on-ask-me-more-questions look.

‘All night?'

‘Most of it.' He comes over and takes my hand. ‘Come on. I've got something to show you.'

‘What?'

‘If I told you about it then it wouldn't be a surprise.'

He is being playful and charming, but it's hard for me to match him. All this crying has left me feeling flat, and my mind is spinning with worries and regrets. All I want to do is hide in my bed and be alone with my thoughts. If Harm senses any of this he is not showing it, and even though I don't want him to know how I'm feeling right now, his inability to see I'm not happy just makes me more unhappy.

‘Okay,' I say, smiling as convincingly as I can. ‘Surprise me.'

He leads me out the back door, then through the sandy grass to the narrow walkway down the side of the house. Even before I can see the blue flowers and long tangled branches I know where we are headed. I haven't thought about the party
for a long time, but this walk, hand in hand with Harm, is bringing up some confusing memories for me. Harm pats my hand reassuringly. When we reach the blue-flowered bush, he pulls the branches aside and motions for me to go ahead.

‘Come on in.'

Covering up my anxiety with a smile, I step inside. Harm steps in after me, and as he lets the branches go blue trumpet flowers sprinkle from the sky like confetti. Though it was dark the night he brought me here, I can see instantly that he has made some changes to the place. The battered old couch with only one arm has been replaced with a mattress, draped with a dark blue Indian fabric. Along its border, lines of hexagonal mirrors twinkle as the wind nudges branches and scatters sunlight across the space. Though the flowery ceiling is still exposed, our grove's walls have been hung with white sheets that billow like a wedding dress. Beside the mattress, a small table holds a bottle of wine and two glasses. It's clear, even to a dunce like me, why he has brought me here. We have been sleeping in the same bed since I arrived, and so far our friendship has been platonic. There was a time when I dreamed about this moment, but now that it's here and with everything that has happened all I feel is tense. Not long ago I would have been thrilled to be sitting this close to him, in this sparkling grove, but it's hard to feel amorous when there's a gaping hole in your heart.

‘Are we celebrating something?'

‘Just my birthday,' he says, pressing play on the stereo before taking a seat on the mattress.

‘Happy birthday. I remember now. I should have bought you a present or something.'

‘That's okay. All I want is for you to help me celebrate.' He opens the bottle of wine with a pop, and then pours us each a glass. I perch uncertainly on the edge of the mattress and clasp my drink with both hands.

Harm smiles and raises his glass. ‘Happy birthday to me.'

‘You realise it's only nine in the morning?' I say as he drains his glass in one gulp. ‘You sure you want to start drinking this early?'

‘My birthday, my rules,' he says pouring another glass. He flicks his fringe from his eyes and blue flowers flutter like falling butterflies from his hair.

‘Cheers,' I say, forcing my smile. ‘Harm, do you really think we should be doing this?'

‘Drinking?'

‘No, I mean
this,
' I say gesturing to the bed.

He sighs and puts down his glass. ‘Mira, is it possible for you to just go with the flow?'

‘I can flow,' I say, avoiding his eyes. ‘I just have a thing about knowing the name of the river I am on.'

‘Spontaneity can be refreshing. You should try it someday.' Annoyed, he begins to roll himself another cigarette.

‘I'm sorry,' I say feeling terrible. ‘I'm not good with this stuff.' I take a sip from my glass, and now that I have had some experience in the matter I realise that he has given me good wine. I mean the kind that makes your mouth velvety and your ears warm. Harm smokes silently, staring at the ground.

‘Come on Harm,' I say, nudging him softly with my shoulder. ‘I thought we worked all this out. Remember? We're just friends.'

‘You worked things out. I'm still pretty confused.'

‘I feel pretty confused myself.'

We sit silently, Harm hugging his knees, me pushing flowers around the dirt floor. I'm trying to work out where all those warm feelings I used to have for him went. After a moment, he turns his head to the side to look at me.

‘Why don't you just tell me straight, do you like me or not?'

‘I wouldn't be here otherwise.'

‘Then why are you always pushing me away?'

‘Am I?' I mumble, and then I don't know what else to say.

He leans away from me and hugs himself like he's cold. He isn't angry, just sorrowful and needy, and I can't stand that I am the one making him feel this way. We sit there, looking at each other, both of us confused and uncomfortable. He looks so different to the Student-number-eight I met months ago. This Harm seems so real. Where I used to see green, smoky eyes and blond cascades of hair, I see a thin, frightened face and the plump lips of a young boy. His shoulders have lost their confidence, and he slumps over himself like he's protecting something fragile. His mouth pulls down at the sides just like Marco's does when he's hurt himself but doesn't want to cry. When did this happen to him? Has he always been like this and I just haven't noticed?

Slowly, shyly, I begin to feel something.

‘I do like you, Harm,' I say, forcing myself to get the words out despite the butterflies in my stomach. ‘I think the problem is that I like you quite a lot.'

He raises his eyebrows, looks at me hopefully. ‘Do you mean it?'

I nod then look away. God, why am I so scared? Hasn't he
just told me that he likes me? And yet I am still confused and doubtful. Even now I am just waiting for him to tell me he doesn't feel the same.

‘I like you quite a lot too.'

And then he kisses me.

I feel like a dark, heavy box has been lifted from me. How long have I been carrying that weight? The relief is intense, but so is the feeling that I have been exposed. I'm an egg without a shell. I hold onto Harm tightly, push myself into him because I want to be near him, but also because I need to feel like there is something around me again. Harm gently strokes my hair. Being with him feels right, like I'm where I'm meant to be, but there is something else; something heartbreaking about being so close, being warm and held in this way.