Beyond the crushing wave.., p.2
Beyond the Crushing Waves, page 2
With another glance at the garage, I frown as I hear the soft strains of jazz music drifting from the open kitchen window along with the faint aroma of something burnt. I shuffle past Gammy’s prized rose bushes, their red and pink blooms filling the air with a pungency that’s heady and sweet and brings a hint of a smile to my heat-reddened and sweat-streaked face. The roses drown out the burned smell and I hope I’ve only imagined it was there in the first place, tainting the air with an all-too-familiar reminder that maybe Gammy won’t be staying in her home as long as we’d hoped.
“Gammy!” I call as I round the house and head up the back steps. There are more of them here than out the front. The laundry is tucked beneath the steps, and I can see Gammy isn’t in there, although there’s a small basket of laundry balanced on the edge of her washing tub, the clothes damp and twisted, ready to be hung on the Hills Hoist clothesline that fills up a good third of the backyard.
She’s in the kitchen, bent over the table reading, her half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose, grey hair a mess of layers and half-curls as though she’s just run her fingers through it. A newspaper is splayed out on the kitchen table in front of her on top of a plastic tablecloth dotted with bright yellow daisies.
She glances up at me as I push through the screen door, and it bangs shut behind me. “Hi, Gammy.”
“Well, Mia, my dear, what are you doing here?” She stands and hobbles towards me. Her left hip always gives her trouble after she’s been sitting.
“I thought I’d check in and see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine, just reading the paper. Then I thought I’d do some gardening before it gets too hot.”
“That ship has sailed,” I sigh. “It’s going to go over forty today, I think.”
Gammy arches an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t mind the heat.”
“But I don’t want you to get heat stroke,” I object.
She reaches for my hand and squeezes it, her blue eyes twinkling. She isn’t one for shows of affection, but I can tell she’s happy to see me. Her cockney accent is stronger than usual when she offers me a cup of tea. I accept and sit at the table to wait, watching as she fossicks through the dishwasher for clean cups.
“Never mind about me. I’ve been out in worse heat than this, and worked harder in it too. Everyone’s so concerned about things like heat and working hard these days. In my day, we just did what had to be done, no matter the weather.”
I nod, pushing back a grin. Gammy’s always talking about the way things used to be. Although, her past is still something of a mystery to me. I know she’s from England, but other than that, I don’t know much, and I haven’t really thought about it until now. With the baby coming, suddenly there’s a growing desire inside me to understand where I came from, to know all the family stories, so I can tell them to my little one when the time comes.
Why haven’t I asked more questions?
“I thought you were raised in England, Gams. It doesn’t get so hot there, does it?”
Gammy glanced at me over the boiling jug. “No, not in England it doesn’t. And yes, I was raised there, in the East End of London. Until we moved here. But that was a long time ago. I’ve lost most of my accent, you know.”
I stifle a chuckle. No one would ever accuse Gammy of having lost her accent.
She hands me a cup of tea. It’s steaming hot, and there’s only a dash of skim milk to cool it. Gammy likes her tea to scald the inside of her mouth. At least, that’s what I always cry about when I burn my tongue on her brew. She laughs at that and tells me to toughen up. It’s something Dad likes to point to, one of the many scarring comments that moulded his childhood. He and Gammy don’t get along. He says she didn’t give him the love he needed as a child; she tells him she wasn’t about to coddle him, and he had it too easy. Neither one of them will give the other any ground. And that’s where I come in — the peacemaker. I want everyone to get along. I love my family. I wish they’d all love each other as much as I do them. But I can’t make them. I know because I’ve tried.
“Thanks, Gammy,” I say as I blow on the tea, sending a cloud of steam towards her lined face.
I push a strand of red hair behind my ear and lean towards the tea, cupping it with both hands even though I’m already stiflingly hot. Tea is one of the things Gammy and I share in common — we both love it, even in the middle of summer. It’s one of the ways she breaks up her day— it’s her excuse for quality time and conversation. That’s something I learned early on with Gammy. When she was younger, she was always moving — cleaning, cooking, ironing, gardening, shopping. The only way I could get her to sit still and talk to me was by sharing a pot of tea together at the kitchen table. It’s our pause button in a busy world.
“So, when did you move to Australia? I can’t quite remember,” I say, studying her expression.
She sighs. “Let’s see. I must’ve been about nine…”
“Nine?” This is news to me. I thought she’d been an adult. If not, where are the rest of her family? The only one I know is Auntie Char, who lives in New Zealand. She’s not really my aunt, but my great-aunt, and Gammy’s sister. She’s glamorous and educated, and she never had children of her own so whenever I see her, she spoils me in ways that got my attention as a kid. I remember the Easter egg full of Smarties and the glossy books with pages of exotic animals she gave me one year. But we didn’t see her often, even when she lived in Brisbane, because I was always traveling with Mum and Dad. But I cherished the times we had together. Still, what about the rest of Gammy’s family?
“Maybe I’m wrong. You know, I get things a bit mixed up sometimes.” Gammy takes a sip of tea and stares out through the back screen door at the yard beyond. Sunshine streams through the screen, leaving a blinding rectangle of light on the brown and white linoleum.
I’m about to ask another question when she stands and leaves the room, shuffling again on her bum hip.
I frown. “Gammy?”
When I follow, I find her folding towels in the front room. Once upon a time it’d been Dad’s bedroom, and before that, an enclosed porch. The heat bakes the room like a Dutch oven on a bed of coals.
“Everything okay?” I ask, leaning against the door frame and folding my arms across my bump.
Gammy grins. “Of course.”
“How is Gramps?”
“He’s fine. He says they’re spying on him.”
“Who’s spying on him?” I quirk an eyebrow.
“The nurses.” Gammy chuckles. “I told him not to worry—they’re only flirting. It seemed to calm him down a little.”
I hate hearing about Gramps’ struggles with dementia. He isn’t the sharp but kind old man I remember from my childhood any longer. In fact, sometimes he doesn’t recognise me when I visit the aged care home where he lives. He and Gammy had been married for almost sixty years, and only in the past year have they ever been apart. It’s hard on them, but I don’t know what else to do with him. It’s too dangerous for Gramps to live at home, and too hard on Gammy to care for him. They fought me over the idea of him leaving home to live in a care facility for months, until one day Gramps went wandering and they found him at midnight ten kilometres from home, disoriented and dehydrated. That was when Gammy finally relented, and Gramps moved out of the house the following week.
“Is Ben excited about the baby?” Gammy asks, setting a neatly folded blue towel on top of a pile of white ones.
I shrug. “I think so. It’s hard to say. He’s working so much at the moment. I feel as though I barely see him.”
“Are you still working?”
I shake my head. “No, I finished up a couple of weeks ago. I told you…”
She smiles. “Oh yes, that’s right. Sorry, love. It’s getting close now, isn’t it? I can’t wait to meet the little bub.”
“I know, and it seems like I still have so many things left to do. I’m constantly rushing about cleaning, cooking, folding, sorting, and buying more things than I really need.”
“You’re nesting,” replies Gammy with a knowing nod.
“I don’t know —maybe I am. I’m anxious about everything. And it doesn’t help that Dad is so against me leaving my job. He’s making me even more stressed.”
“What do you mean?” Gammy stops folding, her eyes narrow.
I sigh. “He doesn’t think I should quit my job. Says it’s unrealistic and irrational for me to stay home with the baby long term. Six weeks is all I need, he says.”
Gammy shakes her head, but doesn’t say anything. She continues folding towels.
“He says I trained for so many years to be a doctor, and it’s silly for me to give that up and stay home. That I’m wasting my education.”
Gammy grunts. “Is that what you think?”
I groan, pressing my hands to my abdomen, feeling the tightness of the skin, the warmth, the slight movement within. He’s been growing inside of me for almost nine whole months and I’m in love with him already, even though we’ve never met. It’s hard for me to imagine bringing him into the world, then heading back to work again so soon. I want to be there for every first—his first smile, his first laugh, his first steps, his first word. “No, I want to be home with the baby. Mum and Dad always put their careers ahead of everything, and I spent my entire childhood being cared for by nannies, or in boarding schools away from them. I don’t want that kind of life for my children. Besides, that’s why I chose to be a GP instead of a surgeon like Ben. I wanted flexibility for when I decide to go back to work. I don’t want my job to be everything to me. Family’s more important. But of course, Dad can’t understand that.”
Gammy reaches out a hand towards me, beckoning me closer. She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it. Her eyes glimmer with unshed tears. “You listen to your heart, love. I’m proud of the woman you’ve become. We weren’t wise to this kind of stuff back in my day, with all your self-help books and podcasts and so on you’ve got these days. We didn’t have all this information about pregnancy, babies, and parenting —we just did the best we could. But you’re gonna be a good mum —I can see that already. You’re selfless; you always have been. You’re the sweetest granddaughter I could’ve asked for.”
She never says anything bad about Dad, but I can tell when she’s unhappy with him by the way her lips pinch together. She and Dad are about as different as two people can be without trying. But she loves him, the way any mother loves her son. So, she keeps her opinions to herself —most of the time anyway.
When she releases my hand, I glance down at the small writing desk that’s squashed into the space beside the bed where Gammy is folding towels. There are scraps of paper and newspaper clippings scattered over its surface. Things I haven’t seen before. I take a step closer and study them, reaching out to finger the edges of one of the clippings. It’s old and has been carefully cut out of a newspaper. I can see the date at the top of the page. It’s from June, 1954. There’s a photograph of a group of about a dozen skinny kids with knobbly knees standing in a field, in line. They’re wearing shorts, shirts, and scruffy jumpers with holes in them. Their hair is cut haphazardly, as though they’ve done it themselves without a mirror. They look cold. Their skin is pale, although the entire photograph is black and white, so it’s hard to tell if they’re paler than they should be. They’re on a farm. Some are bending over, some standing straight. A few have dented metal buckets at their feet.
I pick it up, holding it closer. There’s something familiar about two of the faces — the closest boy and girl. “What’s this, Gam?”
Gammy glances at me, then studies the clipping in my hand. “Oh, it’s nothing. I liked the look of it, something about the smiles on the children’s faces. Are you staying for lunch, love?”
“Um, no, I can’t. I thought we might visit Gramps and then I’ve got to go. I’ve got a million things to do today.”
“Oh, it’s a shame you can’t stay, but I’m glad you want to see your grandfather. I was hoping you’d drive me over there this morning.”
“Come on, let’s go before it gets too late. He’s better in the morning, and I don’t know when I’ll see him next since the baby could come any day now.”
We haven’t settled on a name yet. Ben wants to give him an English name, like Brody, to go with his surname of Sato. But I like Akio, which is Japanese for bright and is Ben’s middle name. In the end, I have a feeling we’ll use both. Brody Akio Sato has a nice ring to it, and Brody is Dad’s middle name, so there’d be another family connection, which feels comforting in a way.
I’ve never been a traditionalist, but as my due date approaches, I’m finding pleasure in little traditions and rituals that give a sense of structure and connection to the generations that’ve come before me. I’m thinking of putting together a family tree, since I know so little about my ancestors, where they’re from, what they did, and what they’ve overcome. I know virtually nothing about Ben’s family either, but he seems not to have the same sense of curiosity as me. Although, mine is brand new and perhaps it’s the hormones driving me more than anything else.
I carefully fold the clipping and push it into the purse hanging over my shoulder by a single thin leather strap. I know when Gammy is being stubborn — she lifts her chin and gets a vacant look in her eyes — and when she does that, there’s nothing I can say that’ll convince her to change her mind and tell me about this photograph. So, I’m going to take it to Gramps. He never turns me down.
The drive to the nursing home is a quick one. Only ten minutes. Although I never call it a nursing home in front of Gramps or Gammy. It’s an assisted living facility. They hate nursing homes and I can’t really blame them. But what else are we supposed to do when neither Gammy nor I can lift Gramps into or out of the shower anymore and we can’t keep track of him every single moment of the day? Not to mention how belligerent he can get when we try to make him take his medication in the evenings when he’s sundowning.
I walk in through the automatic glass doors with Gammy’s hand in mine. Her fingers are swollen at the knuckles; blue veins stand out on the backs of her hands where the skin is translucent. I love the feel of her hand in mine. It’s like traveling back in time to when I was five and she walked me to my first day of school, with Mum scurrying along ahead of us in her stilettos and emerald business suit telling us to hurry or we’d miss the bell.
Gramps sits in the corner in his favourite recliner, his gaze fixed on the flat-screen television set attached to the opposite wall. A game of cricket plays out across the screen, the volume set to nuclear. Gammy kisses his cheek, turns down the volume and fusses over him. His face lights up at the sight of her, and he reaches for her hands to hold them still a moment while he looks her over, smiling. It brings a tear to my eye. I’m so much more emotional these days. I don’t know if it’s only the pregnancy. Or perhaps it’s because I’m bringing a baby into a family that’s so splintered. Whatever it is, it has me pondering what kind of life he’ll live and who he’ll love.
Ben’s parents live in Japan and speak only a few words of English. They’ll video call us when the baby comes, but I don’t know when they’ll visit or how often. Then there’s my parents, the jet-setters who barely come home and when they do it’s more of a fly-in, fly-out scenario, during the short space of which there’s usually some kind of blow-up with Gammy and Gramps over something ridiculous. The last time, it was about Gramps’ medication. Dad said the nurse should be in charge, and I argued we could trust Gammy to dish out his meds on a daily basis. All that to say, my family has its issues, and I don’t know how my little boy will be able to count on them when all is said and done.
“Mia, come over here, love,” says Gramps, holding out a hand in my direction.
I hurry to his side and take his hand, kissing the back of it as I get the lump of emotion in my throat under control. I clear it with a cough. “How are you today, Gramps? Feeling better?”
Confusion washes over his features, his thick, bushy white eyebrows knitting together.
“Last time I was here, you had a bit of a cold,” I explain.
He nods. “Oh yes, much better, thank you.”
I can’t tell if he remembers the illness or if he’s covering for his lack of clarity. He does that a lot. Either way, it’s good to see he recognises me and Gammy, which he still does most mornings.
We chat about the weather, his latest aches and pains, the activities they’ve been offering in the rec room. Gramps asks me about the baby, and I tell him the due date is next week, so we’ll be greeting the baby soon.
“I don’t know how much I’ll be able to visit for a little while, just until I get the hang of being a new mum.”
He smiles, nods. “Oh yes, of course. Don’t you worry about me, love. I’ll still be here waiting when you’re ready to visit. I can’t wait to meet the little scamp.”
Gammy is filling the kettle in Gramps’ tiny kitchenette. She’s ready for her next cup of tea. Her life has become a repetitive procession of tea and biscuits.
“Shall we have a cuppa, then?” is her favourite expression.
While she’s occupied, I pull the photograph from the newspaper clipping out of my purse, press it flat with the palm of my hand and hold it up for Gramps to see. He peers at it, adjusts his glasses, and lurches a little closer.
“What’s this?”
I glance back at Gammy, my cheeks warming. I don’t like going behind her back, but I want to get to the bottom of this. Why was the clipping on her writing desk? Why won’t she tell me about it?
“It’s a photo I found on Gammy’s writing desk. Do you recognise it?”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. Hold on, maybe…”
Gammy marches over, frowns and Gramps glances up at her. She shakes her head imperceptibly, but I see it, and it sends a cold shiver over my neck.
What was that?
“No, I’m not sure, love. But maybe you could turn up the cricket. The poms are losing, and I don’t want to miss that.”
