The Mother-in-Law(35)
“I think Eamon could sell sand in the desert,” Nettie says, and she has a point. At the same time, Ollie isn’t stupid, nor is he irresponsible. He wouldn’t have gone into business with Eamon if he hadn’t thought it through. At least I hope he wouldn’t have.
“Is it time for cigars, son?” Tom asks. “Patrick, are you interested?”
Patrick, of course, is interested. He, Ollie and Tom wander toward the den. Tom has his arms around them as he goes. I know all he wants is the best for his family, but he can be so single-minded about it.
I glance at Lucy, sitting quietly on the other end of the couch—I’d almost forgotten she was here. She is enormously pregnant. This must be unsettling for her. Starting a new business is a stressful time for anyone, let alone when you are days away from giving birth. I wonder, as I have wondered so many times, why she hadn’t gone back to work herself. Even working part time, keeping her toe in the water, would surely give them extra security when starting a new business.
“How do you feel about the business, Lucy?” I ask.
“It’s wonderful,” she says. “Ollie is really excited.”
She smiles, the image of the doting wife, but I see in her eyes that she is worried. And while I know I should be grateful that she is so supportive of my son, all I want to do is grab her by the shoulders and give her a good shake.
The next morning, I’m up and about early. I’ll admit, it’s a strange arrangement I have with the refugee girls I work with. Generally, it’s a very intense relationship in the lead-up to the baby’s birth that peters out when the babies reach a few months old. I keep in touch with the girls where I can—a phone call every so often or a Christmas card, but I quickly become busy with new pregnant girls, and they become busy with their own lives. Still, I’m always pleased when I have reason to hear from them again. Like when Ghezala tells me she’s having another baby.
I pull into the driveway of her home—a different one, just a few streets away from the first, but just as run-down. The lawn is overgrown and the gate is hanging from one hinge. I know Ghezala has been cleaning supermarkets at night to make ends meet, but as far as I’m aware Hakem hasn’t worked since they arrived in the country, two and half years ago. He’s sitting in a faded deck chair on the front porch when I pull up, smoking a cigarette.
“Hello, Hakem,” I say, slamming the door. He’s aged since I saw him last. He’s still a young man, barely thirty at a guess, but his black hair is swept through with grey and he’s paunchy around the middle. His eyelids sit at half-mast, as though he’s drunk or half asleep. I go around to the back of the car and retrieve the basket of maternity things I’ve brought for Ghezala. “How are you?”
He doesn’t respond. I let myself in the wonky gate.
.“Everything all right?”
“Fine,” he mutters. He’s dressed in a flannel shirt, grubby beige pants and thongs. “Ghezala is inside with the boy.”
I stop, rest the basket on my hip. “How’s the job hunt going?”
“Fine. Fine.”
“What kind of jobs are you applying for?”
He stubs out his cigarette, shaking his head. “Oh. This and that.”
“Need any help? I might have some contacts I could—”
He stands, yanking open the screen door. “Ghezala!”
“Have you applied for any jobs, Hakem? Ghezala found her cleaning job quite quickly. Surely you should be able to find something too.”
He cocks his head. “And what kind of jobs would you have me apply for? Taxi driver? Supermarket shelf packer?” He laughs, revealing a mouth of eggshell-colored teeth. “In Kabul, I was an engineer. I built skyscrapers for the big Western chains. This is one of the reasons we were run out of there. Now that I’m here, no one would let me build their dog kennel.”
“So you’re happy to let your pregnant wife clean supermarkets but you’re not willing to do the same.”
He jabs a finger at my Land Rover. “You drive this car to my house and then ask me what I’m willing to do?”
“I’m driving this car so I can drive a double pram to a pregnant woman in Dandenong, Hakem.”
“Tell me this,” he continues, turning his finger on me now. “What would you be willing to do?”
“I’d be willing to do anything for my family. I might not be happy about it. It wouldn’t be fair. But life isn’t fair, is it?”
He shakes his head, makes a pah sound. After a moment, he extends his finger again, over my shoulder. “See this apartment block?” he says, pointing to the shabby three-story apartment block across the street. “The guy who lives there was a respiratory surgeon back home. He used to live in a five-bedroom house! He lives in a one-bedroom now with his wife and three kids.” His takes a step toward me and I can smell his breath, cigarettes and spice. It’s unclear if he is doing this to intimidate me, or is simply fired up making his point. “Have you actually thought about what it would be like to go from having everything to having nothing?”
I have thought about it. More than that, I’ve lived it. But it occurs to me that I haven’t thought about it, really thought, for quite a while.
“What’s going on?” The screen door squeaks opens, and I see Ghezala standing there with a little boy at her ankles. Hakem pulls back from me and I feel the welcome rush of fresh air in my face. “Hakem?”