Facing the sun, p.13
Facing the Sun, page 13
Good things happening means that, when Molly gets out of the car, Bridey doesn’t move. Just acts comfortable, and Adam’s insides melt thinking about what a lovely girl, well woman, she is to stay close like this. He can think of nothing else but. They take him to Glenelg, one of the places Bridey hasn’t been to yet. It’s a bit posh for him. Still, it feels great being with them; except for the bit where Bridey shoves across the bench seat leaving a warm memory behind her. Sandro smiles at him in a distant sort of way, but he seems not to notice anything. When the menu’s put in front of him, he pushes it away, saying, “I’ll just have fish and chips.” His brother regards him too closely. “How about you try something different? Something you haven’t had before,” he says and pushes the menu back. “At least have a look.” Adam flushes angrily at being treated like a kid, but it isn’t his way to make a fuss, so he pretends to scan it while the other two confer about the difficulty choosing between things. An idea strikes him.
The young waitress checks him out, but he keeps his head ducked, listening. “The quinoa salad sounds good to me too,” he announces. “But, can I have a bowl of chips with that please?” When she leaves, the other two are staring at him like he’s an alien. “What?” he grunts. “I don’t only eat shit you know.”
“Apparently,” Sandro says, quietly. “You can eat whatever you like you know. Just wanted you to check out the options.”
“Salad’s good,” his brother replies. “Dad always makes good food. Not all indigenous people eat badly you know.”
“Hey! Where’d that come from?” Sandro looks cross, and Adam flushes.
“I think Sandro’s just thinking of your age,” Bridey offers. This doesn’t help. I’m not a child, he thinks, but realises that the more he says, the more stupid he’s looking, so he pulls back. While they’re waiting for the food, Bridey offers her phone to him so he can read something funny she’s just seen on Facebook. He shakes his head wanting to push it aside but knowing that will look sulky, so he holds it for a second or two and laughs, awkwardly.
Sandro is staring at him intently when he looks up. “What subjects are you doing at the moment Adam,” he asks. “What’s your favourite?”
Feeling like he’s on safer ground, he embarks on a description of English analysis and follows it up with voting for graphics. Pleased this has made them realise he’s intelligent, even though he seems to be behaving like an idiot, he withdraws again when Sandro asks him, “Are you doing well?” There doesn’t appear to be an answer to that.
“I have been most of the time,” he says finally. “Struggling a bit this year, though.” That surprises him. He never usually discusses it, even with his parents who’ve decided he’s going through a stage and seem to be constantly wishing he’ll grow out of it early.
“What did you think of the other salad?” his brother asks him. “The one with the pine nuts?”
“Not much.” He flushes again, annoyed with himself. “I don’t like pine nuts.”
“That’s good,” says Sandro. Adam stares at him, surprised. “Because there were none on the menu.” The two face off with each other while Bridey watches on, puzzled. “Are you having trouble with your eyes, Adam? I’ve noticed you can’t see much detail. Have to stare at objects more than usual.”
If Sandro had asked if he masturbates regularly, he could not have upset him more than at that moment. He flushes again, hating the heat running through his whole body. The dark skin hides the colour, but he knows people can tell when he’s really embarrassed, or upset. He tries belligerence to fend him off. “It’s none of your business.” Thoughts of leaving the table are brushed aside, he’s not breaking down that easily. “They’re just a bit sore sometimes. It’s nothing.”
“Then why are you so keen to hide it?” Bridey is glaring at Sandro, but he’s completely oblivious. Adam casts her quick look, half pleading, half embarrassed. “I think maybe your parents are a bit caught up with other stuff and haven’t noticed how often you avoid reading, bump into things, trip.” The pause is electric, but his brother presses on bringing up everything Adam is certain he’s managed to hide. “I’m surprised Jack hasn’t picked it up.” He attempts a smile, until the look on Adam’s face shuts him down. “Look, that incident where you broke the window. How and why did that happen? An intelligent kid like you doesn’t do things like that unless he’s doped or drunk.”
This is excruciating. Adam knows there’s no way he’s going to let it go, now he’s got this far. Next, he’ll be bringing it up with his parents. Before he can do anything, or think of anything, Sandro has reached across the table and grabbed both his wrists. The thought flashes through Adam’s head that maybe Sandro’s trying to destroy the competition, but then this is quickly replaced by the realisation that he is no competition for their father’s attention. He’s a dud, Sandro’s a success. “It’s none of your business,” he insists desperately. “Just leave me alone.” He glances up as the waitress returns to the table and looks around at the group. Sandro drops his grip and Bridey says to her, “It’s okay. Just a serious discussion.”
The food in front of them goes untouched while Adam tries to work out a strategy, thoughts flashing repeatedly like police lights warning of danger.
Sandro speaks again, despite Adam’s desperation for him to shut up. “You’re my brother. I know we only just met, but if you’re in trouble, there’s help.” He ignores the glitter of tears welling up. “Why can’t you just say you’re having trouble seeing and get some help? It makes no sense. You’re destroying your second last year at school and all the opportunities you’ll have if you do well…for what?”
“I’m going blind. Nothing can be done about it. It’s just what happens.”
“How do you know that?” his brother asks him. “There’s lots of things can be done. Glasses.” A thought occurs to him. “Are you going through all this on your own just because you don’t want to wear glasses?”
“It’s not that simple. Of course, I’m not. Don’t be stupid.” Rattled, Adam begins to feel that his thoughts no longer made enough sense. How can he possibly share them with this stranger and Bridey; people he wants to impress? “It’s diabetes,” he blurts out. “I know all about it because Gugunya’s got it, and they’re always talking about how it will affect her eyes. You go blind. Your feet go numb. Every day you have to jab yourself with needles, and it never goes away. Mum and Dad are always telling us not to drink coke, eat sweet things, all sorts of stuff.”
Bridey turns towards him, so she can see his face. “Have you got diabetes, Adam? I didn’t know that. No one’s said anything, or mentioned needles, since we’ve been around.” She pushes his plate in front of him. “You’d better eat. I know one thing. You’re supposed to eat really regularly.” He pushes it away with too much force, and his plate rings against Sandro’s.
“I don’t think Adam knows if he’s diabetic or not,” Sandro suggests. “That’s the worry isn’t it?”
The glum nod makes Sandro grin. “Your mother’s a nurse for goodness sake. Surely she’d recognise the signs.”
Adam’s grief is huge. “She hasn’t noticed yet. She thinks I’m just going through a difficult stage.” He drags back his plate and, deciding he’s hungry, forks a huge mouthful of food into his mouth before attempting to reply through it. “I don’t want her to know.” He coughs violently as a seed enters his windpipe. By the time his voice is under control again, he decides the food is good, and he should keep eating; a useful way to stop them questioning him. Fortunately, they decide to eat too. Several minutes pass before Sandro takes up the subject again. He’s been thinking. “Self-diagnosis is dangerous, Adam. At about your age, bad pains started running from my belly down into my groin which I decided were muscular. I wasn’t giving up footy for anything, especially as we’d just made it into the Grand Final. Nearly lost my balls over it; and not the footy ones either.” He grins at the horror on his brother’s face, adding reflectively, “The pain was excruciating.”
“What was it?” Bridey and Adam ask in unison.
“Something called stricture, or something like that. It means the blood supply gets cut off to your balls, and they drop off.” This brings a hoot of laughter from his audience. “The coach wouldn’t let me play and rang my Mum. The bloody team won, too. One of the worst moments of my life.” His gloom infects the other two who get the giggles, and he glares at them in mock seriousness. “It was!”
Adam stares at him. “I wish this was as funny as that.” This makes the other two get serious again. “My whole life’s at stake here.”
Sandro agrees. “It could well be. That’s why it’s so important you get checked out and not make your own diagnosis. Just because something’s in your family, doesn’t mean you’ll get it, especially if you eat healthy.” Cheered, Adam meets his eyes hopefully. “What are the symptoms anyway?”
“Well, I’ve been getting lots of headaches, and my legs are funny sometimes.”
“What sort of funny?”
“They go weak and make me knock into things. My eyesight’s been getting worse really fast.” The two stare at him, dumbstruck. “See. My life is over.”
Sandro pulls out his phone and his brother swears. “Who’re going to ring?”
“Baba.”
“No! You’re not!”
“Yes. I am.” His determination is complete, and Adam folds. “We need to get you checked out quickly. This could be something very serious. When did you start getting the headaches?”
“Last term. I told Mum,” he adds, defensively, “and she kept telling me to drink more water and not to try to get time off school.”
“Last term,” Bridey spurts. “Surely, when you kept having headaches, she realised something was up.”
“I didn’t tell her after that. If it was diabetes, you eat right, and I didn’t want them to think it was just sooking. They’re very busy.”
Sandro presses a button on his phone. Soon Adam can hear his father’s response from across the table, impatient and disbelieving. When he hears the symptoms and how long they’ve been going for, his response is, predictably, the same as Sandro’s. “We’re going to meet him at the hospital in half an hour.” His brother shovels down two or three more forkfuls and goes to pay the bill.
“He’s going to be really angry with me,” Adam sulks gloomily. “I hope he doesn’t ring Mum. She’s got enough on her plate. And, Molly’s not to know!” He swallows his orange juice and jumps to his feet. “I don’t want to know.” Bridey nods. Taking his hand, she threads it through her hooked arm. “We’ll be doing it together though, eh?”
Eight
“They think it’s something terrible don’t they, Dad?”
“They are checking if it is something pressing on the brain. It could be fluid. It could be something more dangerous. It could be a tumour that is growing, but is not malignant.”
“What is that again?”
“Do not worry about it for now. Just have this MRI, and then we will know more.” Sohrab grabs his son and holds him close for a moment. “Come! Let us have this done!” He watches as his son walks through the door giving him a wave which should look nonchalant and only results in displaying fear. Desperate, he turns to Sandro, standing by his side. “It is not possible I have found one son, and may now lose the other one.” It twists Sandro’s heart to see the wretched face in front of him, but he can find nothing in response. Their knowledge of medicine is too slim to make predictions, but the doctors rushing them along, insisting the MRI take place immediately and suggesting they should not leave the hospital before having it (although there has been a three hour wait) has raised their anxieties to a peak. Added to this is the fact that Marra can’t be contacted. Hopefully, by the time they do speak, it will be to deliver good news. Sohrab is also having trouble contacting Molly. Her phone appears to be switched off. He wants to instruct her to remain with her friend, whilst not worrying her with too much information. Avoiding her probable insistence on coming in to the hospital is imperative. They don’t need extra challenges. His mind offers him a snapshot of her returning home to Josh, but he rejects it. This Josh seems like a good young man. Perhaps, he can be trusted?
* * *
Ringing phones always interrupt at the most inopportune moments. I force myself to finish the strip of lace I’m working on and ignore it. They can ring back, or, depending on who it is, I may return the call. Trying to ignore the guilt at letting it go to message bank intrudes more than if I’d picked up, and I can’t concentrate any longer, no matter how much I attempt to restrain my brain. The nagging anxiety reaches with long tentacles to capture my thoughts. Sandro. Anxiety like this always involves one of the children. He rang me from Birdsville to talk about Sohrab. This cut deeply; imagining Sohrab with another woman. Not only with her, but happy with her. Also two children. Now, Sandro has a brother and a sister who I may never meet, and this also rips at me in multiple ways. From the text following that phone call, I knows they are now in Adelaide, hopefully about to start the journey home. I miss all three of them constantly, aggravated by the fact that the two girls are holidaying in Bali for a fortnight. Their timing is terrible, but of course, I kept it all inside. Occasionally, Jarrod asks me how I’m going, but he’s distracted, which makes it difficult to express the pain. To complete my misery, he has flown to Sydney for a conference with his firm at the branch there, and won’t be home for another day or two. It seems silly to be flooded with loneliness when I so often long for time to myself. Shaking myself sharply, I put down the length of lace and stand to find my phone. The sound had come from the kitchen, but it doesn’t appear to be in there. Eventually, I relent and ring from the house phone, thus justifying its existence. Maybe, I’m suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s because things like this are constantly occurring: moving from one room to another to do something and then forgetting why I’m there and having to return to the beginning to reconnect with the idea I’d had in the first place. Like now! Sandro. Focus!
It was Sandro who’d called. This feels eerie sometimes, but it happens quite often. My first attempt to return the call gets a busy message. Frustrated, my anxiety rising, I will him to get off the phone. The one in my hand suddenly buzzes, and I grip it firmly resisting the impulse to drop it. He must have been leaving a detailed message. I wait patiently so we won’t have to play hockey and am rewarded when he rings in again. “Hello darling. What is it?”
“Can’t I ring my mother without something being wrong?” His voice is gentle, and I can discern something in it which brings on a wave of distress hastily stuffed down. Can’t things be slightly wrong without me panicking? Goodness, I’m a mess.
“Go on, Sandro. For goodness sake, tell me!” There’s one terrible moment where I imagine him breaking the news that he’s moving to Adelaide; or worse, Birdsville.
“It’s Adam, my brother. He’s quite sick, Mum. He’s been sick for a while and keeping it to himself. He’s just had an MRI, and it’s showing tumours on his brain. We’re all hanging on here. The waiting is terrible, so I thought I’d get you praying for us. The Source seems to be playing terrible tricks on us, and I can’t relax enough to talk to ku myself.” While he pauses for breath, I wishe I was closer; near enough to give him a hug.
“How’s Sohrab?” The question has to be asked, but I have this irrational idea that I’m betraying Jarrod. “What about Marra? She must be beside herself.”
“Baba’s doing okay; trying to be strong for Adam and not scare him, but I’m glad I’m here to help manage Molly and other stuff. We haven’t been able to get on to Marra yet. She must not have charged her phone, because, the last time we spoke to her she was meeting the air ambulance bringing her mother into Adelaide, and now she’s not answering. It’s been four hours. I hope to God nothing’s gone wrong there as well. Her toes are dying. They’re supposed to be here too, but the hospital’s saying they don’t have anyone admitted by that name.” He sighs deeply. “Bridey’s here. She’d like to talk to you.”
* * *
He hands over the phone and returns to his father on the opposite side of the waiting room. “How’s it going?”
Sohrab has aged ten years since the news, and poor Adam sits looking like he’s swallowed a fish bone and mustn’t breathe in case he chokes. “You know guys, lots of cancers are treatable,” he offers, hoping his voice sounds encouraging and not like he’s spinning them a line he doesn’t believe. “Brain tumours” (that is a horrible thing to do; to actually speak that diagnosis aloud) “can be removed. Instruments are extremely well developed these days, robotic even, so they don’t have to depend on someone being able to keep a steady hand.” Is he making everything worse? “If Adelaide doesn’t have the best doctors you could come to Melbourne. Then we’d all be together; support each other.” He is rewarded by two anxious smiles, one from Adam who latches on to his dream to live in Melbourne, if he can come through this, and one from Sohrab who’s thinking what a good man he has for a son.
“Well,” Sohrab says. “Let us see what the doctors suggest. I need to try Marra again, but fifteen missed calls is going to make her frightened.” He winces at the thought of breaking this news and leaving her with the horrible option of abandoning her mother to be with her son. He wishes he had behaved better. He is a terrible husband and father, and now this has happened. Suddenly, he remembers Molly with a flash of fear. “Go home now, my son, and find your sister before we have more trouble on our hands.”
