Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful (15 page)

Ziggy's face goes from smug to furious in an instant. He stands up and leans over me, which – since he's now taller than Dad – forces me to crane my neck to avoid being up close and personal with his bare chest.

“You are not my mother and you do not tell me what to do,” he says in a low snarl, like a dog protecting a bone.

I remember what Vicky told us about how to get away from a dangerous animal without being attacked, and keep my eyes locked on Ziggy's until he takes a step back and leaves the room. My heart is pounding.

After I've cleaned the kitchen and dusted and vacuumed the living room, I set about removing anything even vaguely incriminating from my room. It's not that I think Grandma Thelma would go through my things but … well, actually, yes, I do. During one of our you-don't-respect-my-privacy fights last year, Mum told me that when she was my age Gran used to go into her bedroom while she was at school and read her diary and look through her drawers. She meant that I should be grateful that she only eavesdropped on my phone calls and checked my homework, but all it did was make me suspicious of Gran.

I grab a cardboard box from the recycling pile. Into it goes the photo of me and Dan, and his T-shirt, and the note he left for me at Switch that time he had to leave before I got there. On impulse, I throw in my battered old copy of
Charlotte's Web
. After a tense stand-off with Boris, who's seriously unimpressed about having the sheets changed for the third time in as many days, I make the bed and switch my pillow for one of the old, lumpy ones Mum keeps in the linen cupboard. It's a petty revenge for being chucked out of my room, but quite satisfying all the same.

A car honks outside, followed by the sound of the front door slamming as Ziggy makes his escape. We've carefully avoided each other since breakfast, but I know he's done
some
cleaning because I heard the vacuum in the upstairs hallway. I'm banking on having to do it all again. The last thing I want is for Gran to tell Mum off about the house being a sty.

To my surprise, the bathroom gleams – he's even put a new bar of soap in the shower. The only evidence that this is Ziggy's handiwork is Boris's untouched litter tray in the corner of the room, on top of which sits the chore roster. If Dan was here, he'd chalk this battle up as a win for Ziggy.

I'm just about to take my box of stuff and sheets and pillow downstairs when the screeching starts outside. At first it sounds like a woman shouting, but then it turns into a sort of guttural squawking. Boris wakes in fright and jumps off the bed, taking cover in the wardrobe. Looking out the window, I'm not surprised to see Grandma Thelma in the driveway, arguing with the taxi driver. I am, however, surprised to see that she's holding a large cage.

The taxi driver finally leaves after I promise that Gran's parakeet has neither rabies nor avian flu and pay him an extra ten dollars to cover the cost of cleaning the back seat.

“You shouldn't have given him anything,” Gran says, picking up the smallest of her three bags in her free hand and heading for the house. “Rocky would never have done that if he hadn't been driving too fast in the first place. The speed gets him overexcited.”

By the time I get back from dragging her luggage upstairs, Gran's put the kettle on and is rifling through the pantry. “Where do you keep your biscuit tin, Bloss?”

“We don't have one,” I say, eyeing Rocky's cage in the middle of the dining table and making a mental note to check my avian flu facts with Vicky.

Gran draws her head out of the cupboard and stares at me as if I've just told her we don't have electricity. “But Gene always has a bickie or two for morning tea.”

Only when you're visiting
, I want to tell her, but that'd be giving away Mum's secrets. “We've run out.”

“It looks like you've run out of a lot of things,” she says, adding Tim Tams to the long shopping list on the fridge. “Sorry, Rocko, no elevenses today.” Rocky tucks his head into his chest in disappointment.

It's been almost a year since Grandma Thelma's last visit, but she hasn't changed much. Her hair is still styled the same way and, aside from some faint lines around her eyes and mouth, she doesn't have many wrinkles, especially for someone who's almost eighty. She's still pretty nimble on her feet, too, if the way she moves briskly round the kitchen is any indication.

From the neck up, Gran looks like your regular, everyday nanna. She has her hair set in curls regularly (presumably to hide that there's not that much of it left) and dyed a colour that's somewhere between silver and blond, and appears lavender in a certain light. I've never seen her without lipstick, not even first thing in the morning. (Ziggy has a theory that it's so she can mark her territory by leaving a trail of brightly coloured smears on everything she comes in contact with: tea cups, her toothbrush, our cheeks, et cetera.) From the neck down, it's a lucky dip. Gran's top is nearly always something she's knitted herself. In colder weather she favours jumpers in lurid colours, often featuring some sort of bird or animal or flower, or a combination of all three. When it's warm she pulls out a range of sleeveless tops worked in complicated lace patterns that reveal hints of her skin underneath, as if anyone wants to see it. When she lived down here she always paired these handmade monstrosities with something restrained, like black trousers or a knee-length skirt but, since she's moved up north, you can't rely on that any more. She and the other ladies from the Rest Awhile Assisted Living Villas love going on those shopping tours of factory outlets selling off last season's knock-offs of stuff that was trendy two years ago. Judging by today's outfit, this year's left overs are those leggings that are meant to look like jeans. They set off her watermelon-pink cardigan and sensible walking shoes nicely. Not. Still, it does explain where Mum gets her dress sense.

“We didn't realise you were bringing Rocky with you,” I say, taking a sip from the mug she hands me.

“Well, I couldn't leave him at home, could I? I mean, Maisy doesn't mind having him when I'm only gone for a few days, but I couldn't ask her to do it for any longer than that. Anyway, Rocky loves to go visiting, don't you, Rocko?”

Rocky squawks in agreement. His beak is razor sharp, as are his claws.

“Does he stay in his cage all the time?” I ask.

“Oh no, at home he has the run of the place but the airlines are very fussy. His travel perch is in my suitcase, if you'd like to get it. I'm sure he'd love to stretch his wings.”

I return Rocky's rueful stare. “Perhaps we'd better let him get used to being somewhere new first.”

I check the bus timetable while Gran “freshens up” (which, judging by the loo flushing and the bright slash of colour on her lips, is nanna code for “goes to the loo and puts on another layer of lippie”). Remembering my promise to Dad to get Gran to the hospital as close to the end of morning visiting hours as possible, I play for time.

“There's a bus in five minutes,” I call up the stairs, “but we'd have to run to make it. Best to wait for the next one, eh?”

“I can run,” says Gran, jogging down the stairs to demonstrate her fitness. “Let's go.”

She walks two metres ahead of me the whole way down the street, which is even more embarrassing since she's carrying her handbag and a large tote bag and all I have in my hand is my wallet. She's not even puffing when she asks the driver for her pensioner ticket.

The bus is packed, since it's school holidays and the route goes to the city via Parkville Metro and the hospital. Grandma Thelma stands next to the priority seating sign at the front of the bus and tuts audibly until a young couple stands. She sits and motions for me to take the other seat. The couple give me the death stare.

“That was quite a sprint you made up the street,” says the elderly man sitting across from Gran. “I'm impressed.”

“Thank you,” says Gran, patting her hair into place.

The two of them chat for the rest of the journey. On the one hand, I'm relieved not to have to make conversation with Gran myself. On the other, I'm horrified that she and the old man are
flirting
. Right there on the bus! I stare out the window, hoping the other passengers won't guess we're related.

When we get to the oncology ward I try to outpace Gran so that I can at least give Mum and Dad a couple of seconds warning that she's arrived. Mum looks a bit perkier than she did yesterday, but she's still in bed. I avoid looking at the drainage tube; it's not a good idea this close to lunchtime.

I reckon Mum must still be a bit woozy because she seems genuinely pleased to see Gran. They hug for a long time, Gran sitting on the edge of the bed and Mum clinging to her like a child who's just woken up from a bad dream. Dad suggests that he and I go and make tea while the two of them catch up. They dismiss us with a wave, already deep in conversation.

“Gran brought her bird with her,” I tell Dad as soon as we're out of Mum's room. “And you owe me ten dollars for paying off her cab driver so he doesn't sue us.”

“The bird? Why would she do that?” Dad's so horrified that he gets out his wallet without asking for details.

“She said she couldn't leave Rocky home alone for too long.”

Dad's shoulders slump. “Just how long is she planning to stay?”

We drink our tea (which isn't strong enough for Gran's liking) and eat the shortbread biscuits I found at the back of the fridge in the visitors' lounge (rancid, says Gran, but she still eats two of them). Gran tells story after story about terrible things that have happened to friends of friends of hers in hospitals. Mum keeps trying to reassure her that the Women's Hospital has a top reputation for patient care, but this doesn't stop Gran going on about legionnaire's disease and golden staph and super viruses. Dad seems relieved when the nurse comes in to tell us that morning visiting hours are over.

“I'm not a
visitor
,” Gran huffs. “I'm Gene's mother, and I've travelled a very long way to be here.”

The nurse looks like she's heard it all before. “I'm afraid I can't make any exceptions. You can come back at three.”

“I'll tell you what, Thelma,” says Dad. “Why don't we go home and have some lunch, and then you can unpack and settle in and we'll come back this evening with Ziggy?”

Gran fixes him with her old-lady death stare. “I've got a better idea, Terry. Since there's nothing to eat at your house, anyway, why don't Freia and I go and have some lunch and you can get the groceries and meet us back here with Ziggy later?”

I try to will Dad mentally to tell Gran that he needs my help with the shopping or something – anything to spare me from spending two hours alone with the woman – but he's so relieved to be off the hook himself that he doesn't get the message.