Sydney's Song, page 24
“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.
We Like Your Accent
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.
“Sing, Sydney,” urged Ashleigh.
“Nope. You guys are too good. I won’t humiliate myself with my off-key singing.”
The boys were enjoying their pre-uni vacation. Gilang, a happy, unassuming boy with dark-chocolate eyes wanted to study biotechnology. His parents said it would help him to make friends quickly if he had something to share. Since his hobby was music, they suggested it. Thus the fun-filled US mansion.
“Pete said my country’s gross national income per capita was way less than three bucks a day,” Gilang confided to me. “He sorta opened my eyes to giving something back after my studies.”
“Sounds very Pete, huh?” Lance joined in.
“That’s him,” I shook my head, my mind somewhere in the happy past.
Lance tilted his head to look at me, a gesture so much like Pete’s.
On the Red Line train to MGH he said, “Sydney, Pete would’ve liked it if you hang out with us. He often joined us too.” Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and fell promptly asleep. It amazed me no end how he could wake up when he was supposed to. So far we had never missed a stop.
Throughout the summer Lance regularly took me to their “band practice” while Pete was napping. Once, Gilang gifted himself with tattoos on his left arm for his 18th birthday present. But his dad, who disapproved of tattoos, unexpectedly showed up and hauled Gilang to the hospital. His dad ordered all the tattoos to be surgically removed. When it healed after his dad’s departure back home, Gilang promptly had the same arm inked again. It costed him $600 for the first designs. The following week he added $600 worth of colours.The week after $600 worth more details. All in one forearm.
Several of these friends had girls they dated.
“Tell me Sydney,” Miguel, a Hispanic-lover-in-the-making who preferred romantic dates to sport, and who talked really a lot, approached me one Friday afternoon. “Where should I take my date?What sort of first outing do you girls prefer?”
“Just ask her what she likes. If you don’t like it, be prepared to suggest your preference.”
“Hey Sydney,” Derek, a Matt-Damon-wannabe, struck a posture in front of me, sleeves tightly rolled up to show off impressive gym-honed biceps. He was always very conscious about muscle building.“Do you think my date will like my new shirt?”
“Me? Advising you? I’m hopeless about fashion! I pretty much think it’s your personality that counts. She won’t ditch you if you’re very interesting,” I told him. Derek made a mock crestfallen expression that made me laugh. “Nice biceps, though.”
“Honestly?” he dropped to the big chair in front of me, hands clasped, elbows on knees. “Where’d you want to go when a guy asks you out? What do you like? In other words, how did Pete impress you? Apart from his pretty face?”
Shy Sean came near us. He was very tall, but because of his very youthful face people did not normally realise this until he loomed before you. He sat down next to me, hazel eyes showing interest in our chat.
“But Pete doesn’t have to do anything,” I replied. “He just has to exist. Breathe. I like that best. Him. Just—being there, courteously unobtrusive. A constant presence. Never pushy. Being polite is free, you know. Yeah, I like a guy being himself, never pretending to be what he’s not. You can do that.”
“So I can be a schlub from gym?” Derek asked.
“Only if you shower first. Common sense, man. Personal hygiene is big. And… I believe I do notice people’s toenails.”
They all burst out laughing.
“Choose me, choose me,” smiley Ashleigh came over with his guitar. “I don’t give a damn how I look but I’ll keep you entertained.” The black kid with the golden tonsils, he proceeded to sing Blink 182’s “She left me roses by the stairs…”
That very evening my phone rang when I was in Pete’s sick room.
It was Derek.
“Don’t have your dinner tonight,” he ordered. “We’re taking you to eat out.”
“We?”
“The band. You have a date with all of us. You should learn something about Boston’s famous jaunts.”
“Oh? Where are we going?”
“Back Bay. Not too far from your place. There’s this billiards-and-bowling alley with great food.”
“Billiards and bowling? But I’m exhausted already.”
“You won’t be. Not when you hear the music.”
“But why’d you want to go out with me?”
“’Cause your voice is hot, even when you don’t know how to sing.”
“Whaat?”
He laughed out loud. “Just pulling your leg. Okay Sydney, ’cause you’re fun to hang out with. And, ‘cause we like your accent!”
When I looked up, Pete’s Mom was eyeing me wrathfully and my heart lurched. My spirit plummeted. Alright, alright, ‘fess up. She had the power to rob me of any light.
Pete’s Mom revelled in staying bitter. She loved her arrogance and did her best to be unpleasant. And she was successful.
“Sydney?” Derek prompted.
Time to do something about my bruised spirit.
“Good-o,” I deliberately chose the Australian expression. “I’ll give it a go.”
“Super! We’ll pick you up.”
Pete’s Mom threw me another of her hostile looks when the boys arrived. I supposed that was okay, since she even glared at Lance, her own son. They greeted me happily and noisily (“We’ve all cleaned our toenails, Sydney!”), kissing my cheeks with loud smacks, but lost all their vocabulary when greeting Pete’s Mom. Typical teens, my parents would say.
“Save me from your Mom, darling,” I whispered into Pete’s neck.“Get better.”
We had Boston’s famous seafood, which tasted so good after continuous hospital fare.
“Glad you like it!” Ashleigh shouted when I ate with gusto. The friends had been drumming and belting out songs following the loud music in this very noisy restaurant, with onlookers throwing indulgent smiles at them.
“Pity legal drinking age here is 21!” Miguel shouted.
“A relief no one’s pressuring me into drinking!” I shouted back.
“But I wish I were 18 living Down Under!” Derek, beside me, commented wistfully. Well… I wasn’t about to mention Dad’s abandoned cellar. I told him about our exorbitant food and drink prices instead, and asked him to come when loaded.
After their music practices I went on a few more outings with them. We had scrumptious lobsters at the Legal Sea Foods on the waterfront, and very close from there was the New England Aquarium—a gorgeous facility similar to our Manly Aquarium with its tall five-storey central aquarium tank filled with sharks and sea turtles, moray eels and plenty of other large fish. Of course, it had yet to beat Sydney Aquarium’s Great Barrier Reef with its real Nemo’s world.
The boys sang everywhere. They sang by the river and in the car during Boston’s ugly traffic jam. Their light mood was contagious.Carefree and full of high energy, they made me laugh. For a while their joy revived me and eased my worries.
But nothing—nothing!—could make my love get better.
What’s Your Weight Today?
Pete’s condition remained the same when September rolled in.Lance’s gang were about to start uni. They had admission to Harvard, MIT and Boston University, with cheerful Lance going for Biomedical Forensic Sciences. His Mom, of course, lamented the fact that he was not good enough for NEC. Tough. He didn’t even want to study music.
Back home, the Sydney Olympics were about to start. One afternoon I watched the frenzy of preparation for the Opening Ceremony on TV while massaging Pete. Once I had a picture of me taken at the 1300500 office, holding one of the Olympic torches.Seeing it now with its design of boomerang and Opera House made me homesick. Poignant longings clawed at my heart.
Inhaling the lovely citrus scent of the massage oil, I continued massaging Pete. I was now an experienced masseuse, specifically for long-term bed-ridden patients. And how these months had changed me… I now did with love the things I had been squeamish about at the start.
I washed the massage oil away and applied lotion. All the while Pete’s face was very calm, but his stare was blank. He didn’t know me. He did not know what was going on.
“Do not despair of God’s grace,” I chanted to myself as I put on his clean hospital shirt, expertly wrangling his arm’s cast through.
“Do not despair of God’s grace,” I repeated like a mantra, standing by his hospital window. The view wasn’t much here. The picturesque riverbank was blocked by the tops of other buildings.
I took stock of my situation, Pete’s stagnant condition, and the hospital’s efforts.
Recently Dr McGlynn, the orthopaedic surgeon, had opened Pete’s casts, taken more X-rays, and decided to put new casts on to allow more time for more healing.
“His bones should completely heal,” he explained. “But he will need to go through extensive physiotherapy to recoup the complete use of his arm and leg. That can only be done if he can follow the instructions. Meaning, he needs to be able to understand his physiotherapist.” He looked at me with compassion, his kind eyes complementing the unspoken words.
My beloved would have to understand, and respond, before he could learn to walk again.
“The same applies to his brain,” the doctor continued. “New scientific research shows that the health and function of a patient’s brain can be improved with the right mental workout. But he needs to have the capability to follow these workouts.”
Oh God, when would Pete come back?
His family loved him but he would remain a burden in their lives.
And because Pete was a patient you couldn’t chat with, the hospital staff could not view him as a person. They did not know his dreams, his ideas and interests. His feelings and wishes. His ambitions and anxieties. They did not know his rich life stories. They had no idea how lovely he was as a person or what he could give others. (I had Bread’s “If” playing in my head, “If a picture paints a thousand words, then why can’t I paint you? The words will never show, the you I’ve come to know…” ) To them he was an endless chore. No more.
I dreaded the inevitable end of my one year. The day when I would have to pack up and really leave. (“If a man could be two places at one time I’d be with you…” ) It was unavoidable. Creeping slowly but surely.
There was no way I could go back on my words regarding the one-year-only promise. Just wasn’t me. I had to meet their terms and keep my end of the agreement or my heart would twist with heavy guilt. No begging for prolonged help. I must complete my studies first before consigning the rest of my life to caring for Pete.
Anxiety crept up on me, getting a grip on my heart and mind. How, just how, would I ever have the strength to leave Pete alone in his present condition? In helplessness I prayed, “I have no one else to ask, Lord, please, oh please return my love to normal-land.”
